


no fool will ever sit on the throne of love

by thirteenblackbirds



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Almyra (Fire Emblem), Background Petra/Dorothea - Freeform, Crimson Flower Route, F/F, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Getting to Know Each Other, M/M, Minor Ferdinand von Aegir/Hubert von Vestra, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Political Intrigue, Post-Canon, Sibling Rivalries, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-20
Updated: 2020-10-11
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:09:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 43,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24281860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thirteenblackbirds/pseuds/thirteenblackbirds
Summary: With the War finally behind them, the newly united Fodlan, under the emblem of the Adrestian Empire, has finally begun the long work of rebuilding and reform.  Edelgard continues to work at a frenzied pace.  At the back of her mind, she is always conscious of a mercilessly ticking clock.  Against this backdrop, Linhardt brings her good news and bad news.  The good news is that he and Lysithea are closing in on a solution.The bad news?  The final piece of the puzzle lies in the capital of Almyra, having been taken as the spoils of war over two centuries ago.  And Almyra's willingness to return such spoils comes with an unusual qualification: the personal attendance of the Adrestian Emperor.To complicate matters, all is not quiet within the Almyran royal family.
Relationships: Edelgard von Hresvelg/Claude von Riegan, Other Relationship Tags to Be Added
Comments: 79
Kudos: 169





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The title borrows a line from a beautiful Rumi poem called _Mistaking the Lightning for the Sun _.__

Edelgard is in her study reviewing Ferdinand’s proposals for a new educational system and funding plan when the message arrives. Outside her large windows, the chill of the Lone Moon is beginning to thaw. Soon it will be a new year. 

Later, she will appreciate the irony of the timing.

Three quick raps at the door precede Caspar’s “Edel – Your Majesty!”

“Come in,” she says. “You are free to call me by name when we’re in private, Caspar, you know that.”

He grins at her and rubs the back of his neck, a self-conscious gesture that he’s never managed to shake. “I know, but I thought maybe the maids might hear and if it gets back to Hubert, he’ll give me another earful.”

Edelgard wishes she could tell him his worries were unfounded but… well, she knows Hubert well. They both do. Not that it really changes much of their behavior around him and Edelgard suspects his consternation is now more for show than any real irritation. 

That aside, a closer look at Caspar shows that he’s breathing harder than usual and there is high colour in his cheeks like he’s just returned from the sparring grounds. And while Edelgard does not keep perfect track of her friends (she leaves that to Hubert), she seems to recall that Caspar should be visiting Linhardt at his research facility this week.

“Is there something you need from me, Caspar?”

“Oh, yes!” He scrambles to retrieve something from the pockets of his overcoat and hands Edelgard a slightly crumpled piece of paper. “Linhardt asked me to deliver this. He said it was important, so I rode back here immediately.” That explains the signs of exertion. Linhardt’s research facility is a half-day’s ride from Enbarr and knowing Caspar, he’d made better time.

She frowns slightly – she’s rarely known the head of her Imperial Research Institute to have a sense of urgency about anything. Unfolding the slip of paper, she sees Linhardt’s surprisingly neat handwriting with just three short lines:

_Come soon. Close on twsitd experiments. Will need help._

Heart pounding faster, Edelgard crumples up the note and burns it, one of the only spells she’s ever bothered to learn. 

“Caspar, meet me with Eir at the gates in ten minutes. I’m going to see Linhardt.” She sees his eyes widen in surprise, but he asks no questions – just nods and sprints off to the stables. 

Calling for her maids, Edelgard dashes off a quick message to Hubert about her unplanned absence, orders her winter cloak and boots to be brought, and makes her way in brisk strides to where Caspar is waiting with her pegasus mare. To say that her fighting style is incompatible with flying is an understatement, but there is nothing faster than a pegasus for short-distance travel and Edelgard has enough proficiency to manage non-battle flight.

“Caspar, I’m afraid you’ll have to follow on your horse.”

“I’ll race you!” he calls, already mounted and galloping away.

Despite the urgency she’s felt since reading the brief note, Edelgard allows herself a brief smile. She is always grateful and pleased to see evidence that the bloody, protracted path she led her friends on did not leave irreparable wounds – scars, yes, but scars are a sign of healing.

She swings atop Eir, giving the mare a light pat on the side, and urges her to take flight, heading northwest in a beeline to the research facility she’d built Linhardt after the War.

*

The official site of the Imperial Research Institute is located on a small lake. That had been one of Linhardt’s requests and he made no attempt to hide that the reason was so he could fish anytime he wished. In fact, that had been in his official submission to her and, as such, is now part of the Empire’s official record. The pre-eminent research facility in the Empire is located where it is because its chief researcher loved fishing. Still, Edelgard does not begrudge Linhardt that indulgence. On contrary, she had been counting on him making the position as comfortable for him, and therefore as conducive to his work, as possible when she’d promised him the post all those years (a lifetime, it feels) ago in the musty, dry chill of the monastery’s underground burial hall.

The dying light of day is turning the lake molten-orange by the time Edelgard lands Eir on the soft grass by the large, sprawling white building that houses the Empire’s foremost scientific minds (other than Professor Hanneman, who visits regularly in between semesters). Also at Linhardt’s request, the building has only one story because he “hates climbing stairs” (in his own words). He has also been known to ask his colleagues and subordinates to Warp him across the length of the facility on occasions when he is feeling particularly tired of walking.

An unfamiliar researcher comes running out the front doors to meet her. “Your Majesty! Chief Hevring told us you might be coming but not this soon!” The use of the title and Linhardt’s family name tells her this is a fairly recent addition to the team – most of the researchers transition quickly into calling Linhardt by just his first name, with varying levels of exasperation depending on seniority and how often he’s fallen asleep on their notes on any given day.

“I have a pressing need to speak with him,” she says, already striding as quickly as she can toward the doors. “Please take care of my pegasus for me.”

“Yes, Your Majesty! The Chief is in the library!”

She waves her thanks and continues walking at speed into the building, cloak billowing behind her like a banner.

The library, which is already in the process of its first extension, is located near the back of the expansive building. The echoing of her riding boots on the hardwood floors heralds her arrival before she sweeps into the room.

“Linhardt!” she calls and a ruffled head raises sleepily from behind a towering pile of books. He has a smudge of ink across his left cheek. 

“Edelgard.” He blinks at her as though he hadn’t summoned her in haste from Enbarr with a frustratingly tantalizing note this morning. “You got here fast.”

She resists the urge to pinch the bridge of her nose. “Your note was very motivating,” she says dryly.

“Oh…” At Edelgard’s pointed look, threatening to sharpen into a glare, Linhardt sighs and stands, scooping up an armful of scrolls. “Cyrus, can you get Lysithea please?” A short, auburn-haired researcher she hadn’t noticed earlier scurries off to do just that.

Now that Linhardt is moving, Edelgard’s building impatience dissipates. “What did you find?”

He sets down his scrolls in front of her and goes to grab three more books. “It took some time but we think we may have a clue about the experiments that were conducted on you and Lysithea.” He says the words clinically and without pity, which Edelgard has always appreciated immensely. “I’ve narrowed down the likely sources they consulted to these.”

They both look up at Lysithea striding in briskly and pulling the large oaken double doors shut behind her. “Your Majesty.”

“Please, Lysithea, there is no need for that between us. I’ve told you that before.” Edelgard smiles as the younger woman comes to give her a quick embrace. 

“Now, I expect you two made a great deal more progress than finding the materials on which the Agarthans based their experiments.” 

Lysithea nods grimly, darting a glance at Linhardt. “Is that as far as you got?”

“You both move very quickly,” he says in response with a light shrug. He may look as drowsy as usual, but he has yet to suppress a yawn so Edelgard knows he is in fact paying close attention. “As I was explaining, we believe we’ve reconstructed the theory behind the implantation of a Crest and have a working theory as to why it causes its side-effects. If we’re correct, and I think we are, the damage is not irreversible and there is a way to remove the foreign Crest that will allow the body to heal naturally. The surgical spells we’ve mapped out should work, though we have some more experiments to run. Professor Hanneman is supervising one right now so we may well have a confirmation before he heads back to Garreg Mach for the new school year.”

He trails off and Edelgard forcibly restrains herself from tapping her foot. “And?”

Linhardt’s deep sigh is made more alarming by a mirroring sigh from Lysithea. “However, we’re still missing critical information about how the second Crest is anchored to the body. Without knowing that, we do not know how to target the removal process. These texts mention an anchor and refer to more specialized works, so we have good reason to believe it exists, but it is not any of the works to which we have access.”

Edelgard is confused. It all sounds very promising so the lack of excitement on her friends’ faces gives her a creeping sense of apprehension. “Your note said you may need help. What can I do? Any support you need, you have it so long as it is within my power to give.” 

“We suspect that the Agarthans did not have the advantage of the text we’re missing either,” Lysithea says. “They just blindly brute-forced the anchor. That’s why they needed to perform so many experiments, and why they failed so many times. They may never have truly understood why they were successful with us – all they needed were results, after all, not knowledge.” Her voice does not quite tremble with fury, but the other two can tell it is a close thing.

Edelgard is not sure where this is going but she has a feeling she will not like it. She says as much out loud.

Lysithea gives her a small grim smile, confirming the accuracy of her intuition. But it’s Linhardt who bites the bullet.

“These –” he indicates the small mound of scrolls and books with a wave “– largely originated from collections from the former Leicester Alliance. We believe the missing sources were there too.”

“Were,” Edelgard repeats.

He nods. “We’ve already checked with the major Houses and even the minor ones that were historically more significant. Nothing has turned up. Our best guess is that the source was captured along with other treasures –” Edelgard is really not fond of where this is headed “– as spoils in the Almyran invasion.”

Now _that_ was outside of her considerable power to singlehandedly provide. 

That would require the cooperation and goodwill of a nation with whom Fodlan has been in a state of cold (and sometimes hot) war for the past two centuries.

*

With the War finally behind them, the newly united Fodlan, under the emblem of the Adrestian Empire, had finally begun the long work of rebuilding and, most importantly to its young Emperor, reform. Edelgard had continued to work at a frenzied pace. At the back of her mind, she was always conscious of a mercilessly ticking clock.

Linhardt had the research facility and resources she promised, and Lysithea divided her time equally between it and Edelgard’s newly-established governing council. There have already been breakthroughs that promise to one day render Crests, and their resulting strife and heartache, obsolete.

Edelgard had no great hopes for her lifespan to be restored and was no longer bitter about this fact. She’d already accomplished more than she could have hoped and lived to see it. She would make the most of whatever time she had left, even if it is short. Anything more would be a blessing and Edelgard is not one to wait on blessings.

The discussion with Linhardt, however, reinforces Edelgard’s closely held faith in humans rather than self-proclaimed gods. Even with the complication that has been introduced, there is at least a possible light in the darkness that had promised her an early demise. 

She takes a light dinner with Linhardt, Lysithea, Caspar (who shows up, sweating and exuberant, an hour into their conversations) and the rest of the Institute staff but declines the offer to stay the night despite the late hour. As she lands Eir back in the parade grounds in front of her palace in the pin-drop silence of midnight, she turns her mind fully to the tricky royal missive she now must draft to the King of Almyra.

*

“They said yes,” she says to the expectant faces around the table in the conference room reserved for meetings with her innermost circle of advisors. No one says a word or expresses relief at this – they know her well enough to sense there is more. Edelgard suppresses a sigh and wonder when she has gotten so predictable. 

She raises the thick paper again, reading directly from the beautiful handwritten letter: “We congratulate the Emperor of the Adrestian Empire, Her Imperial Majesty Edelgard von Hresvelg, on the unification of Fodlan and take this opportunity to extend our invitation to Her Imperial Majesty to visit our royal capital to establish new ties of friendship and peace. We would be pleased, as a gesture of goodwill and friendship, to return the Fodlan artefacts you seek, and any other we may have in our safekeeping –” she hears Hubert’s soft noise of disdain at the euphemism “– and hope that you will honour us by receiving them personally.” 

She stops there and refolds the letter. “So you see, they have conditioned their consent, and the return of our items, upon my personal attendance in the visiting contingent.”

“That is obviously unacceptable,” Hubert says dismissively. At her raised eyebrow, his resting frown deepens. “You cannot be seriously considering this preposterous request, Your Majesty. You are the Emperor. You cannot venture into enemy territory – into their stronghold – by yourself.”

“I will not be by myself,” she points out. “Linhardt and Lysithea will join me for obvious reasons, as well as a suitably limited selection of other retainers. I doubt Almyra is planning to assassinate me while I am a guest in their royal residences.” 

“There are many ways to distance oneself from an assassination,” Hubert says darkly, “and many more ways to make an alleged accident impossible to verify.”

“Your Majesty, I must agree that this is a most unusual and unreasonable demand by the Almyrans.” Ferdinand’s brow is furrowed in uncharacteristic chagrin. “It may be a trap or it may not be, but there is no political hostage they could offer who could possibly be nearly as valuable.”

“They do not propose to offer anyone as a, in your words, political hostage.”

“Preposterous,” Hubert scoffs. “It is out of the question. The Emperor of the Adestrian Empire cannot go into a lion’s den without any assurances other than fanciful promises of friendship.”

Neither Byleth, Lysithea nor Shamir have said a word, the latter glancing between Hubert and Ferdinand with something like amusement. As always, it is near impossible to guess at Byleth’s thoughts but Edelgard trust him to share his views if he feels it necessary. She knows Lysithea feels conflicted and has chosen to refrain from offering input out of concern her bias will impair her judgement, even though Edelgard doubts that would actually be the case. 

So, three out of her five advisors are keeping their own counsel on the matter while the other two are decidedly against it. Very helpful. Still, she would take these deliberations any day over their wartime councils.

“Then I will abdicate,” Edelgard says, simply.

“Absolutely not!” If Ferdinand and Hubert are surprised their protests are aligned, it takes a backseat to their shock at Edelgard’s pronouncement. Sharing a bed has not made them much more likely to share a political opinion.

Their Emperor looks back at them tranquilly. “Well, then, present me with a different solution rather than telling me all the things I may not do as Emperor. I trust that my esteemed Prime Minister –” a glance at Ferdinand “– and my distinguished Minister of the Imperial Household –” a more pointed look at Hubert “– will be able to come up with an optimal solution. I shall await your answer by the end of the week. In the meantime, I will give some thought as to my potential successor.”

She does not miss the grimace on Hubert’s face at her last sentence — she knows how to motivate her oldest friend. There are more lives than hers at stake and her throne is a very small price to pay, she feels, for the chance to regain even some of what those slithering villains stole from her and Lysithea. There are many excellent candidates for a successor, after all, and two of the best are the two currently frowning at her intensely from their places at her left and right hands.

*

“Let us send a diplomatic envoy. You do not have to personally make the trip, Your Majesty. They would be foolish to truly expect that!”

“It is their condition, for whatever reasons of their own, and they hold the cards here. No, I must personally be in attendance, whether as Emperor or not.”

*

“We could send spies to steal it.”

“Steal what? Linhardt, Professor Hanneman and Lysithea can barely tell us what it is they are looking for. It could be a book or a scroll or an artefact. You plan to have your spies attempt to bring back a small library and whatever looks promising from the treasury? No.”

*

“How about a substitute? They’ve never met you before –”

“Claude – Prince Khalid – attended school with us for a year, Ferdinand.”

“I have faith that he would not sell you out!”

“I doubt that he would –” (although, of course, like so many things concerning their former classmate, she can never be sure) “– but it’s too risky. If anyone were to find out, we could have a war on our hands for the deception, with our researchers behind Almyran borders. No.”

*

“We could invade—”

“ _No_.”

*

By week’s end, they have not, in fact, managed to cobble together a cohesive, acceptable response. Byleth is notably silent during the back and forth lobbying of increasingly unrealistic proposals. Edelgard suspects it is because he already knows her preferred solution and has no objections to it, which serves to strengthen her resolve.

“I will travel to Ishfa at the end of the Great Tree Moon,” she announces at the next inner council meeting. “Linhardt and Lysithea will accompany me, naturally.” Before Hubert or Ferdinand can renew their protests, she raises her voice slightly as she continues, “Hubert, Ferdinand, I will leave the choice of the other three members of my retinue to your discretion.”

She sees a small smile on Byleth’s face and answers it with one of her own. The gesture will provide Hubert with some measure of control and comfort, and there is no one she trusts more to obsessively consider the most advantageous, protective, and politically appropriate selection of companions. 

Surprisingly, it is Ferdinand who digs in. “Your Majesty, I must insist again that this is not a good idea.”

Seeing the concern and consternation in his eyes, Edelgard sighs. “Ferdinand,” she says, quiet now, drawing his attention more than any loud shout would. “I must do this.” _For Lysithea, if not for myself_. “I am happy to go as no more than Edelgard von Hresvelg, a private citizen of the Adrestian Empire. Please understand that is not intended as a threat to force your hands into acquiescence. You can all carry on my work and my hopes for Fodlan just as well, if not better, than me. My work was to unite Fodlan, carve out the corruption and pave the path for reforms, however many souls and however much blood was needed in the achieving of those goals. That work is now complete. I am content to leave the throne and the crown in more capable hands than mine.”

She stops when Ferdinand raises a hand, in surrender. “I understand, Your Majesty.”

“You must not yet leave us,” Hubert adds, a note of distress in his voice that Edelgard is certain only she (and perhaps Byleth with his uncanny sixth sense) recognizes. “There is still too much work to be done and Fodlan continues to need you, as unfair a burden as that may be. We will prepare a shortlist of candidates for the remaining members of your imperial retinue and draft a response to Almyra to schedule precise dates and itineraries.”

The crisp clipped tabulating of tasks causes Edelgard to relax minutely at last. “Thank you,” she says sincerely. “Do not worry overmuch.” She knows they will not heed that suggestion. “Remember, Prince Khalid owes me a life debt.”

(“You know they asked for the Emperor of Adrestia,” Byleth murmurs softly when he and she are the only ones left in the room. “Not Edelgard von Hresvelg, private citizen of the Adrestian Empire.”

Edelgard huffs a small laugh. Nothing gets past her former professor. “I know. But it worked, didn’t it?”)

*

Her imperial escort is rounded out by Dorothea (who has to be called away from Brigid, but the queen’s consort is only too pleased at the prospect and the queen herself is quite put out when she couldn’t likewise escape from her duties for a nostalgic stint of adventure), Caspar (who needs no convincing at all for another adventure) and Bernadetta (who does have to be convinced with bribes of truly alarming quantities of carnivorous flora from Brigid, Dagda and beyond).

Byleth is deemed too much obvious firepower and thus too threatening. He appears to take this with good grace, but Edelgard can tell her former professor is somewhat sulky about being held back. She laughs to herself about it – they both know that Hubert’s judgement on this point is accurate (which is why it goes unchallenged) but she also knows that Byleth has been getting bored in Enbarr. Not that he loves war, but he does prefer some measure of action and with Felix away at Garreg Mach with Annette, there is barely anyone here (save Edelgard herself) who can make him break a sweat in the sparring room. Perhaps once she is back she can send him to the Academy for a semester or two as a guest professor. He had loved teaching, he’s told her once before, and she can personally attest to his talent in that field.

*

A flurry of letters are exchanged over the next weeks, negotiating the minutiae of her travel arrangements, while Enbarr and the rest of Fodlan prepare for year-end festivities. 

As the Empire counts down the days to bidding farewell to the current year and welcoming a new one, Edelgard approves a revised version of Ferdinand’s detailed proposal for the implementation of universal education. 

They celebrate and give thanks for the bounties of the past year – the first full year of peace in more than half a decade – with a splendid feast over which Edelgard presides in full imperial regalia and then a more intimate dinner with her closest companions who had stood with her in battle and alleged blasphemy. Her heart fills with warmth at the sight of her dearest friends laughing, arguing, sharing new stories and old jokes, drinking, cheering – _alive_. She can almost believe that they are back at the Officer’s Academy, if not for a few conspicuous absences… ah, but she has promised herself not to stray down that dark and brambly path today.

In three weeks’ time she will set out for the weeklong journey to Fodlan’s Throat and, from there, Ishfa where for as long as history has been recorded, no Adrestian emperor has ever set foot. Not even Hubert’s vast network of spies are able to provide much useful intelligence on their northeast neighbour, though that is in large part due to the hermetic seal the Church of Seiros has imposed on Fodlan for centuries. It is about time to start changing that as well, Edelgard thinks. This may be an unexpectedly serendipitous opportunity.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Edelgard receives some news about Almyra that puts her on edge right on the eve of crossing over.

There is an uninvited, but not unwelcome, guest awaiting Edelgard's convoy at Fodlan's Locket. 

"Your Majesty." Twin pink heads are lowered before her. Hilda, in a shimmering velvet-silk gown that has been expertly tailored to allow for unfettered movement (and battle), rises out of her curtsy first, smiling at Edelgard cheekily. Her brother holds his own bow for a beat longer before following suit. 

"Duke Goneril, thank you as always for your steadfast defense at our eastern border."

"It is my privilege and duty, Your Majesty. It has been quiet of late." No particular surprise there. Edelgard acknowledges that with a nod and turns to the petite warrior in noblewoman's clothing beside him.

"Hilda, I had not expected you here." Though she is not wholly surprised. "But I am happy to see you. How have you been?" Hilda had been one of the few among her class at the Academy that had resisted Byleth's recruitment drive, staying behind to fight at Claude's side until Derdriu finally fell. Then, she had respected Claude's surrender terms calmly, becoming key to preventing widespread panic and disorder in the aftermath and, with her brother, greatly easing the integration of the Alliance into the Empire. Hubert had dismissed her during their Academy years as coddled, frivolous and lazy (a description that Hilda herself would not necessarily contest) and Edelgard admits that she did not take much notice of the other girl. 

Since that time, she has come to realize that Hubert's initial had only just scratched the surface of Hilda Valentine Goneril. Those parts of her are not a mask, per se — they are very much part of Hilda and Hilda would more than happily be solely those things if only people and circumstances would stop demanding her competence and intellect, of which she also possesses in abundance but is generally uninterested in exerting. So, entirely against her will, Hilda has become an integral leader in the former Alliance territories and Edelgard holds her loyalty, battle prowess and singular ability to get others to do what she wants in high regard, despite (and maybe, in a way, because of) her certainty that Hilda would be quite reluctant to accept that revised assessment.

"Exhausted," Hilda replies with a sigh that is belied by a quick follow-up grin while Holst rolls his eyes not-so-discretely.

"Oh my," Dorothea clucks sympathetically, one hand propped under her chin for added effect, "who has been running you ragged, Hildie? Surely it isn't our imperial majesty." Edelgard shakes her head with a small lift of her shoulders — not her.

Hilda heaves a deeper sigh, always happy to be enabled. "Who else but Lady Judith?" It's a sign of the Hero of Daphnel's leonine stature that even in her absence and Hilda's mock-woe, she does not forgo Judith's title. "I've _just_ gotten back from visiting Marianne — you know how far away she is — and she was going to send me to Garreg Mach to greet the new Golden Deer students if I hadn't just _had_ to come see you off, Your Majesty!" She spins back to Edelgard. 

Holst watches his little sister with equal parts resignation and helpless fondness, and Edelgard can certainly see how Hilda would have been spoiled silly as a child. She hides a smile and nods solemnly, "I appreciate the gesture, Hilda. I will be sure to let Lady Judith know." That earns her a beam. If Hubert were here, he would not approve.

"Thank you, Your Majesty," Hilda trills. Since the unification, students at the Officer's Academy are no longer grouped by territorial affiliation, but the old House names have been retained and notable alumni of each House are invited at the start of each year to participate in a fireside chat with the applicable matriculating class. "I suggested that she send Lorenz instead." 

"I'm sure Lorenz will enjoy the task," Dorothea says and the two women grin at each other.

Suddenly Hilda's eyes catch on something or someone behind Edelgard and light up. "Lysithea!! You've grown so much, look at you!"

"I'm still the same height," Lysithea says as Hilda dashes forward to give her former Housemate a hug. It is still jarring to see that Lysithea is slightly taller than Hilda now.

"You look adorable in this outfit!"

"It's a standard researcher robe."

" _Ah-dor-able_ ," Hilda coos. "Oh, Bernadetta! You too! Is that a new hairpin?"

Bernadetta squeaks as she finds herself the focus of Hilda's exuberant attention. Dorothea laughs and joins them as Hilda rattles off a list of the many presents she's brought for them.

Holst steps up next to her, gaze still following Hilda dotingly. 

"She is a credit to House Goneril," Edelgard tells him, "and truly fearsome in battle."

He gives her a studying sidelong glance, shedding the formal, perfunctory deference. "Thank you for staying your hand in Derdriu. I and House Goneril are in your debt for that grace." Edelgard knows in the quiet resolve in his voice that, had she struck Hilda down in that battle, the greatest general in the former Leicester Alliance would have fought until he killed her or perished trying. 

And there really is no response to that, so after a brief silence to acknowledge his words, she says, "Walk with me, General."

As they stroll along the battlements, nodding at soldiers who greet them with sharp salutes, Edelgard's gaze is drawn invariably to the east, across the towering range of mountains where Almyra lies. While successfully installing a long-term spy there has thus far proven beyond even Hubert's considerable talents in this arena, there are those who travel with the infrequent merchant caravans that traverse between the border. The Almyran escort forces will be here in two days. She hopes that Holst will have some information that will help her be even a little bit better prepared for the journey from here.

As though sensing her thoughts — frankly her thoughts right then are not terribly difficult to guess at and Holst is not considered one of Fodlan's greatest generals solely for his battle prowess — Holst says, "The border has been calm for a number of years now. Nothing but occasional skirmishes with the more courageous, or foolish, of bandits. With your leave, I would like to present a plan for a gradual reduction of the forces permanently stationed here for your consideration upon your return." _Depending on how your trip goes_ , is unspoken but clearly understood.

"That's not a bad idea," Edelgard agrees. "There is no point keeping so many away from their homes and families if the situation no longer calls for it."

Holst nods, then follows her gaze out to the border he has guarded for so long. "A merchant caravan returned three days ago. I've had a full report dispatched to Marquis Vestra and there is a copy waiting in Your Majesty's rooms here. There is one piece of news that may be of particular interest: there are rumours in the capital that the king's eldest son and daughter, who have been outside of Ishfa on routine tours, have either been recalled or are otherwise urgently making their way back to the royal seat."

That _is_ intriguing and unprecedentedly specific. They have never been able to obtain anything other than the most basic information about the Almyran royal family. Hubert has not even been able to verify the exact number of royal children. After the War, Judith had viewed Edelgard with suspicion but through the fight with the Agarthans, and Edelgard's determined policy of transparency with the leaders of her vision of Fodlan, among whom she certainly counted Judith, the older noble had slowly warmed up to the new Emperor. They were not bosom friends by any means (and unlikely to ever become that), but maintained a healthy respect for each other. It was Judith who had filled in the gaps of their knowledge of Claude's heritage and Tiana von Riegan's disappearance, but Claude had been characteristically enigmatic about his life back in Almyra even with her and Judith had not been able to provide any more details about his family other than her impression that the situation is ... complicated. Which royal family dynamic _isn't_?

From Hubert's intermittent sources, the most important piece of information they have on current Almyran politics is that, apparently, a crown prince has not yet been publicly pronounced. Which, of course, might at least partially explain Judith's impression.

If she is honest with herself (and she tries to be), Edelgard has spared a thought or two over the last years about her former classmate there but there had not been a chance to turn her mind to it between the rebuilding efforts and the aforementioned difficulties collecting reliable information... well, it's not that it ever occurred to Edelgard to write him a letter.

"I am guessing we do not have any indication of why they may be returning," she prompts, not expecting any additional information and sure enough, Holst shakes his head. 

"The local merchants and soldiers he shared drinks with seem to believe it has to do with your impending arrival in their capital," Holst says in a way that suggests he has doubts about that explanation.

Doubts which Edelgard shares. It is not an implausible explanation but... "Perhaps," she allows. "But it gives me an uneasy feeling." There are storm clouds gathering overhead now, as they are wont to do so close to mountains, and Edelgard watches them with disquieted eyes before the winds and threat of rain force them back into the fortress.

She shares the information with Dorothea the next day, but otherwise decides to keep it to herself for now — she does not wish to distract Linhardt or Lysithea from their primary objective while in Ishfa and sees no need to unnecessarily alarm Bernadetta or Caspar. 

She reads and rereads the full report in the time she has left, but finds that while it is a useful guide to daily life in Ishfa, it does not offer any further insight into the question of whether the eldest prince and princess of Almyra's race to return home may be linked to her imminent presence or something else entirely.

*

She half expects the honor guard sent by Almyra to be led by Claude, but no, it is General Nader who meets her at the border at Fodlan's Throat, with a full phalanx of barbarossas and, by Edelgard's (very expert) estimate, at least two hundred infantry soldiers. The troops do not all fit into the narrow pass at the Throat and spill out in disciplined formations on the Almyran side of the border. The beating of wyvern wings fill the air.

"Your Majesty." The man she personally defeated — twice — nearly three years ago stands at attention before her and Edelgard senses no animosity or resentment in his eyes or posture. 

"General Nader. Thank you for meeting us here. We will be in your care."

"His Royal Highness sends his regards." He pauses and she senses there is more to the message. Nader is an excellent soldier, which requires an excellent control of body language, but Edelgard suspects she sees some exasperation in the grizzled face. She sympathizes — one of Claude's great abilities has always been to confound and, yes, exasperate even the most stoic of characters. It appears that has not changed since the last time she saw him (on his knees, face streaked with blood and sweat, but still with that bloody devil-may-care grin gleaming up at her). "And his apologies," Nader finally gets out before the pause stretches into awkwardness, "for being unable to greet you personally upon your arrival on Almyran soil."

"That is very kind of Prince Khalid," Edelgard replies graciously, "but the apologies are, of course, unnecessary. I look forward to greeting him in Ishfa." 

Rote pleasantries completed, he and the soldiers he commands salute her before retreating a respectful distance to allow her to dismiss her imperial forces. She can sense before she even turns around that her own general is none-too-pleased at having to turn back at the border and permitting the Almyran troops to secure her safety the rest of the way to Ishfa. Nevertheless, it is customary and it would have been a grave insult to decline that offer or insist that Imperial soldiers, in strength, march on Almyran soil. Caspar has been permitted as her personal guard, though, of course, every single one of her select group of companions is more than capable of heavy combat. The man she'd known as Claude surely knows that well (has had first hand experience of it) so the fact that there had been no objections to the names sent ahead to the Almyran capital makes Edelgard suspect that Claude has his own agenda in mind for her visit. She fully expects that suspicion to be confirmed when she sees him again.

"General Falk, thank you for your skill and vigilance during the travel from Enbarr. Please convey my thanks to your troops as well. I will personally express my gratitude to them upon my return."

He salutes her gravely. "You honor me and my soldiers with your words, Your Majesty." He had been a captain in her father's personal guard prior to the War, a position which, under the old system, as a commoner, he had been lucky to reach and from which he would have had no hopes of surpassing despite his superior mind for strategy and gifted swordsmanship. Under Edelgard's rule, he had distinguished himself in battle against the Agarthans and was subsequently promoted to General, one of two stationed permanently around Enbarr. "Your Majesty." Edelgard pauses in her turning away. "Please, take care."

Edelgard smiles, posture blade-straight, the sun glinting off of her imperial regalia. "I leave Enbarr under your capable watch, General."

His salute this time, echoed thunderously by the troops behind him as well as by Holst and Hilda, answers her charge more eloquently than any words.

Edelgard completes her turn away and strolls toward where Nader is waiting, her five companions falling in step neatly behind her. Their bearings are calm, relaxed even, but one would be a fool to believe any of them not to be fully capable and willing to defend their Emperor to the death (even Linhardt, who looks about ready to doze off in the sun even as he somehow remains upright and walking). One would be an even greater fool to believe that Edelgard would let them do so without dying first with Aymr, singing with blood, in her hands.

(She'd not been allowed to bring Aymr along with her, however. Something about not bringing godslaying weaponry on a, nominally at least, friendship-building expedition.)

*

The march to Ishfa takes several days from the border and is predictably uneventful. No bandits are suicidal enough to attempt a raid on the hundreds-strong cohort that surrounds the core procession. In war, Nader would be riding at the very front, leading his legion at its head. Now, in peacetime, on a mission of historic importance (but outright tedium militarily), he rides just ahead of the primary carriage containing Edelgard and Dorothea. Linhardt, Lysithea and Bernadetta are in their own coach, alternating between napping, poring over documents, and, for Bernadetta, doodling the impressive Almyran steeds pulling their rides. They rest in fortified citadels and camps along the way, sleeping on lush cushions and scented silks that their escort troops carry specifically for use by Edelgard and her retinue. 

The Fodlanians are endlessly curious by the lands they travel through, having never been outside of their homeland (other than Dorothea to Brigid). Even Linhardt and Bernadetta, the two party members least interested in social interactions for their own unique reasons, have their attentions perked. Lysithea devours book after book that Edelgard suspects Claude made the caravan haul along specifically for her. Where she's found the time to learn Almyran is a mystery to Edelgard and while part of her wishes that Lysithea had kept it a secret for strategic purposes, she is mostly warmed to see the girl she's come to think of like a little sister so happily engaged. (Her own Almyran, hastily and intensively studied in the preceding weeks, is serviceable but rudimentary and even that level of command is due in no small part to the existing similarities between the two languages — Edelgard has no illusions about having any particular gift for languages.) 

Caspar badgers the infantry soldiers until they agree to spar with him and then badgers them even more with questions about their fighting techniques. Dorothea flirts shamelessly and indiscriminately, learning drinking songs with glee. By the time the gates and towering domes of Ishfa are visible, gleaming golden in the mid-morning light — Nader has timed their arrival with impressive precision and to spectacular effect — Dorothea has murmured to Edelgard that she has a more or less conversational command of the language and expects to master it within the next week. Not for the first time, Edelgard marvels at the other woman's brilliant mind and murmurs back her thanks. She will not have want for a set of understanding ears by her side after all.

The infantry battalions leave them at the gates, standing at attention as the caravan continues past them into the capital city, Ishfa, the jewel of Almyra. The moniker is not an exaggeration — the main boulevard, at the end of which sits the Royal Palace, is lined with prosperous stucco-finished shop fronts where every other window is decorated with stained glass in various jewel tones, matching the richly-dyed silks fluttering in doorways and hanging from awnings. Gold, silver and turquoise-topped towers pierce the skyline in pairs, flanking elaborately painted domes. 

Curious bystanders throng on the sidelines, wide-eyed children and adults both, watching the procession that carries the Emperor of their perennial enemy into the heart of their capital. Trumpeting and drums herald their arrival at the walls of the Royal Palace, painstakingly painted and inset with detailed reliefs. Opposite her in the carriage, Dorothea reaches out to touch her arm lightly.

"Looks like we're here, Edie." 

The old nickname makes Edelgard smile. "Yes. I am sure Claude has his own plans for our time here. I'll have to see if I can persuade him to share them."

"It is not Claude that I am concerned about," Dorothea says quietly, eyes darting at the carriage doors as they both feel it begin to slow. "His brothers —" She cuts off abruptly as the wheels roll to a complete stop, shifting seamlessly mid-sentence into an excited, "We're here, Your Majesty! Finally, I am looking forward to a hot bath and a cold drink." Edelgard makes a mental note to send Petra a special thanks for sparing Dorothea for this journey (not that the Queen of Brigid could or would have done anything to deny her wife what she wanted to do).

"Indeed, Dorothea," Edelgard says, voice clear and composed, as she assumes her mantle of Emperor of Adrestia. Then the door opens and Claude is there, grinning, hand outstretched to help her from the carriage. He has not changed much from her memories — still roguishly handsome, with his chestnut hair swept back and a little longer than he had kept it in Fodlan, beard neatly trimmed and that same cheeky grin. If anything, he looks stronger, a little broader in the shoulders and chest — though, and perhaps she is imagining it, with a new unfamiliar touch of darkness in his eyes.

"Your Majesty," he says as she slips one gloved hand into his, bending her head to duck under the door frame and immediately straightening once she reaches the ground, head held high.

"Your Highness," she responds formally, with a nod in greeting. Behind her and to the side where the rest of her party has disembarked, from either their carriages or horses, everyone else gives the Almyran prince a bow or curtsy. In his turn, Claude bows over her hand, his fingertips pressed to his forehead, before unfolding to his full height. Everyone else in the imposing courtyard performs the same gesture, some dropping to their knees depending on the discrepancy in rank.

"Welcome to Ishfa. I am delighted, though not surprised of course, to see you here safely in one piece. I trust General Nader made the journey as pleasant as possible." The sunlight catches on his gold earring like a wink.

"I was most impressed by the General's hospitality and vigilance," she says smoothly, the lines a well-worn script. "I am grateful for his care."

"Wonderful!" Claude claps Nader, standing at his side, on the shoulder. "I expected nothing less. You have my gratitude as well, Nader, for bringing my old friends safely here." Turning his attention back to Edelgard, he includes the rest of his 'old friends' in his gaze as well. "You must all be tired from your long journey. The attendants will show you to your rooms where there are refreshments and other comforts waiting. We have a big feast prepared tonight — I oversaw the preparations myself and I know you all remember how good I am at that! So rest up! There is a lot to celebrate between your arrival and our reunion."

Out of the corner of her eye, Edelgard sees Lysithea's mouth open and then snap close, her fingers twitching in an aborted fidget. She knows that the younger woman is restraining herself from asking to see the library immediately so that she can get a head start on the research and she knows that Claude sees it too from the small smile he directs at her — the first one that Edelgard can say with certainty has been wholly genuine since their arrival.

"That is appreciated, Prince Khalid," Edelgard says, inclining her head slightly in thanks, a trace of tiredness in her voice that she does not have to feign. The two nights of rest at Fodlan's Locket, as welcome as it was, had been a week ago and had done little to ease the strains of travel from Enbarr. She has felt a creeping headache behind her eyes for a few days now. "I look forward to greeting His Majesty this evening. This is quite the historic occasion after all." She is gratified to see a flash of humour in Claude's eyes at that remark.

He bows to her again, less formally this time, as a group of servants approach discretely, eyes firmly on the ground, and murmur for them to please follow, which they do, whisked away along long colonnades and through a series magnificently painted doors, buffered by high walls and lush gardens, until they are finally settled into two suites, the women together with Edelgard, and Caspar and Linhardt across the courtyard. The tall, lean (veering into gaunt) man who meets them there explains in perfect Fodlanian that while the sleeping quarters of unwed men and women were typically kept far separate, an exception had been made for the Emperor's imperial entourage and that he hopes she will be comfortable despite the obvious paling of the accommodations compared to her own imperial seat at Enbarr.

"I am certain we will be very comfortable," she responds. "You may discuss any other arrangements with Dorothea." The other woman steps up, radiating charm and harmless vivaciousness. Edelgard sweeps her gaze across the courtyard once, noting the positioning of the servants, the well-kept trees providing shade, the small pool that centers the space, and then turns, heading into her living chambers for the next few weeks, Bernadetta and Lysithea flanking her. 

There are lavishly thick overlapping rugs covering every inch of the floor and beautifully-textiled couches and cushions set tastefully around the open space. Multi-coloured silks are draped from ceiling beams and wrapped around columns alongside elaborately embroidered jacquard. Beyond the main seating area are sleeping quarters — three richly appointed sleeping areas in a communal space followed by a second bedchamber, at the very back, in which there is a luxurious bed fit for an Emperor. 

Finished with her examination of the general layout, Edelgard returns to the front and, seeing that Dorothea is waving the steward out the door, settles with a sigh onto one of the couches, leaning down to take off her boots. Lysithea and Bernadetta have also flopped onto the cushions, Bernadatta's quiver and arrow propped up next to her on the floor.

"He seems nice," Dorothea says as she takes a seat on the couch to Edelgard's right. "Reminds me a little bit of Hubie." At Edelgard's raised eyebrow, she laughs — not her bell-like coquettish laughter, but a full warm rich sound. "Although Hubert would eat him alive, I agree."

"Ahhh, I missed the ground," Bernadetta sighs happily. "And having a proper door. And walls."

Edelgard smiles at the bow knight, still deceptively frail-looking and easily frightened. She remembers the battles where Bernadetta singlehandedly carved her way up one side of enemy flanks and had to wait, jumping at every noise, until the others caught up. "Will you be alright sharing the sleeping quarters, Bernadetta? Would you like me to request new accommodations with a separate room for you?"

She can tell that Bernadetta is tempted but the girl emphatically shakes her head after a second of thought. "No, Bernie will be fine! I don't mind sharing with Lysithea and Dorothea. J-Just don't sneak up on me, ok??" 

"Why would we sneak up on you?" Lysithea asks, fondness rather than exasperation in her voice. 

"J-Just don't," Bernadetta mutters into the overstuffed cushion she's clutching to her chest and half her face.

"We won't, Bernie dear," Dorothea soothes. "Ah, I believe our promised refreshments are arriving." And indeed, a stream of slender, wispily-clad young women are arriving with delicate copper platters of fresh fruit, honeyed dates, and an assortment of confectioneries the colour of semi-precious gems that have Lysithea and Edelgard perking up. Jugs of water with slices of lemon are also set down on the low tables around them along with bird-patterned bronze cups. 

Edelgard is grateful for the cool drink. The air here is much dryer than Enbarr, the landscape sparse with a harsh beauty. The old maps they still have of Almyra told her that Ishfa is still a distance away from the vast deserts to the southeast but the desert climate is not inclined to remain bound by the sands and sweeps north to touch the capital with cool, dry winds. Her tightly coiled hair and the weight of the imperial headpiece exert a constant pressure.

"Leave us," she orders the maidservants. "We shall call if we need anything." All of the women around the room immediately prostrate themselves, then get up and leave quietly. "Close the door behind you."

Once they are alone, Edelgard sighs and stretches. "Dorothea, will you help me remove this? I need a small break."

"Of course." Dorothea gets up to move to Edelgard's couch and begins to unpick the intricate arrangement of pins and clasps that hold up her hair and her crown.

"These are delicious, Edelgard, try some!" Lysithea holds out one of the sweets platters, mouth already crammed near full.

Giving her a grateful look, Edelgard pops one into her mouth and almost moans. It is impossibly sweet with an undercurrent of warm spice and fruit flavours that soothes her exhaustion and stress like a balm.

"Good, right?" Lysithea has already inhaled three more.

"They're sooo good, Edelgard!" Bernadetta's cheeks puff like a chipmunk's. 

"Let's hope this whole trip will be as pleasantly surprising as the desserts here," Edelgard says, reaching for another one herself.

"Nothing wrong with a little optimism," Dorothea says, laying the deconstructed headpiece on a cushion gently before beginning to uncoil Edelgard's hair. The release of pressure has her sighing deeply. For the first time since leaving Enbarr, she feels something close to relaxed. The mystery of the returning prince and princess, and the constant mystery of Claude's intentions, can wait for a little while. 

And Edelgard keeps in mind, first and foremost, that her goal here is to help Linhardt and Lysithea secure what they need. In that regard, she hopes that her presence will be useful in overcoming any ... reticence there may be among the rank and file to the king's stated intention of returning Fodlan's captured antiquities. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A note on the use of Claude vs Khalid:
> 
> El & co. will generally refer to him as "Khalid" in formal settings or when speaking of him to Almyrans, but will tend to revert back to "Claude" in more casual conversations or in their heads, because old habits and all that. As he chose Claude for himself, I assume he does not mind either way.
> 
> The narration will follow the naming convention the POV-character has for Claude; in the case of El, it will remain Claude. If there are chapters from characters who would have grown up with him as Khalid and refer to him that way in their heads, it'll be Khalid (no plans for that so far, but I never know for sure). 
> 
> Thank you to everyone who read, left kudos and commented! I don't do well with strict posting schedules but so far this story seems keen to get written (let's hope that didn't jinx the muses...).


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Edelgard is introduced to certain members of the royal family and Dorothea's social skills continue to be a godsend.

The royal audience hall has high vaulted ceilings and thirty six great pillars, each requiring at least two fully-grown men to encircle fully, running its length. Vast as the chamber is, every last inch of the octagonal walls are covered in tapestries of silk, weaving renowned scenes from epics alongside lifelike depictions of the flora and fauna of Almyra. Incense burners are lit at each of the eight corners, drifting clouds of pleasing, spice-warm scents while being far away enough to prevent any stinging accumulation of smoke. Sconces of lamps lining the walls and hanging in massive rings from the ceiling glow softly; they will be tended to by servants throughout the feast and continue to light up the banquet long after the sun descends in the west. Where the floor is not covered by luxurious rugs, vivid mosaic renderings peek out in lapis, vermilion, sage, amethyst — a geometric riot of patterns and colours.

Courtiers and viziers, in exquisite multi-layered robes, stand in loose but attentive lines, eyes deferentially lowered from the imposing man on the central dais who wears a simple crown of fresh myrtle leaves and iris buds, wound around delicate gold filaments, and with a ruby the size of a pheasant egg meticulously cut into a lotus flower inset at the center. The greenery is cut fresh and woven together with the golden frame daily — a luxury more valuable than precious metals and gems in the semi-desert climes around the capital.

One of the several lengthy letters exchanged after Edelgard's acceptance of Almyra's invitation had helpfully described in detail the formalities she could expect at her initial audience with the king. There had even been some sketches in the margins. That letter had been generically signed, as with all the rest, by the royal seal, but the handwriting and style had noticeably been different. None of her original Black Eagles knew Claude's handwriting well enough to offer an opinion on whether it could be his, but Lysithea had taken one look and shaken her head. "Too neat," she'd said. "And it slants to the left — Claude is right-handed." 

Now, stepping through the tall doorway to the herald's sonorous ringing announcement of her full title and name, the early evening sun at her back, Edelgard is grateful for the mystery letter-writer. She sweeps the grand hall with her eyes, lifts her head a little higher, stands a little taller, and prepares to meet the Great King of Almyra.

*

After the ceremonious greetings and exchange of gifts, her companions take their seats, led by bowing attendants, on cozily arranged cushions near the front of the hall. Edelgard ascends to the platform where a heavy carved seat has been placed to the king’s immediate right and crowded with extravagantly comfortable cushions onto which she settles, servants coming up discretely to help drape her long cape behind her. 

From afar, Darius II, the Great King of Almyra, had looked the picture of good health and strength — reminiscent of his reputation as a fearsome warrior though white now outnumbered the dark in his hair and beard — and his voice, when welcoming her, was deep and powerful. From her closer vantage point now, however, Edelgard sees a sunkenness to his eyes and a certain pallor to his skin that the warmth of the lamps does not quite mask. A thought that feels like impending realization tickles at the back of her mind but she does not have time to examine it before she sees a tall dark woman approaching her, her gait giving her away as an experienced fighter, the circlet at her brow marking her as royalty. 

"Your Majesty." She sketches a shallow bow rather than a curtsy as Edelgard rises to greet her.

"My eldest daughter and one of Almyra's finest generals," Darius introduces from her left. That, Edelgard does know — one of the few tidbits of information that had gotten caught in Hubert's diligently-cast intelligence nets: Sura commands an elite battalion of the Almyran army and has been away from the capital for a number of years, according to the merchant and foot soldier grapevines, dealing with a persistent desert pirate insurgency in the southeast. Edelgard has read several reports that say soldiers regularly toast to her health — the only one of the royal children she has heard granted that honour repeatedly. The stern, proud woman standing before her certainly seems capable of living up to that outsize reputation.

"Princess Sura," Edelgard says, inclining her head to the royal daughter reported to have arrived back to the capital in a hurry. 

"Please, I prefer General," Sura says. She stands at least a head taller than Edelgard, with a slight imbalance like she is used to compensating for a heavier load on one side — probably a weapon, Edelgard thinks, recognizing the stance. She still feels the absence of Aymr at times, misses its reassuring weight.

Summoning a smile, Edelgard realizes that Sura must be occupying the empty setting beside her, which would make her not only the eldest daughter, but, in the absence of a declared heir apparent, the eldest royal offspring. Past Sura, where the four adult princes are taking their assigned seats along the left side of the platform, Edelgard sees Claude glancing briefly toward them. Seeing him in line with his three brothers is a somewhat jarring sight, though Edelgard cannot put her finger on exactly why. They do not seem particularly close, if she is reading the stiffness in their body language correctly. Then again, in a court with five adult royal children and no named heir, perhaps that is not surprising. She wonders how her relationships with her many siblings may have developed if.... well. Thoughts for a more private time.

Keeping her face a disciplined mask of pleasant politeness, Edelgard inclines her head to Sura. "General Sura," she adjusts. "Pleased to make your acquaintance." 

Sura stares down at her for a beat longer. Edelgard wonders if this is some kind of power play — if it is, she is certainly not one to back down and she stares resolutely back, allowing a measure of steel to glint in her lavender eyes. Formidable as Sura's reputation may be, Edelgard is not in the habit of backing down from a battle of wills. In her peripheral vision, she sees the chief steward look at though he is about make a motion towards their tableau when Sura suddenly smiles, the crinkle of her eyes softening the high, severe planes of her face. 

"I have heard that the new Emperor of Fodlan is a great warrior," she says, body language relaxing and Edelgard does her best to reciprocate. "I am more inclined to believe those rumors now." She walks to take her seat beside Edelgard. "We value warriors here in Almyra, as you may have heard, and are always seeking worthy new sparring partners." 

"It has been a long while since I've had the opportunity to wield my axe," Edelgard demurs as she sits back down, lying through her teeth. She spars at least twice times a week, usually with Byleth, but she has no desire to walk into a duel with the Almyran royal princess without understanding any underlying political nuances. Sura's expression tells her she is not wholly believed but the princess-general does not push the point.

*

The formalities properly observed, the feast gets into full swing, a soft din of conversations permeating the room. More pillows are brought in by attendants for the guests to lounge on as they relax into more casual reposes. A small space is cleared in the middle where a score of musicians and dancers, beautiful lithe women in bejeweled gossamer-light costumes, perform under the enchanting glow of the lamps as attendants carry in tray after tray of delicacies: steaming grilled meats, spiced vegetables, flatbreads, fragrant rice wrapped in seasoned grape leaves, hearty stews and other delicacies that Edelgard can only guess at. The platters are brought before each guest and an attendant helps to serve portions according to each guest's preferences.

"No wonder Claude was so enthusiastic about feasts at Garreg Mach," Dorothea says, sampling a bite of each dish and making mental notes of which flavours she thinks Petra would enjoy the most so that she can bring back those spices among her souvenirs. 

"They're exhausting," Linhardt notes. "These pillows are comfortable though..."

"Linhardt! Do _not_ fall asleep. We've just gotten here!" Lysithea pokes him in the side, clearly used to having to do this often. She looks to Caspar for help. "Caspar, can you keep Linhardt awake for at least an hour please."

"Come on, Linhardt, this is great! Try the food, I don't think I've ever had this kind of meat before. What do you think it is?"

"Bear," Linhardt says disinterestedly.

" _Bear_? Whoa!"

" _B-bear?!_ "

"Stop it, Linhardt, no, Caspar, Bernadetta, that's not bear. It's goat." Lysithea takes a dainty bite of hers and makes a small face, setting it aside in favour of a sticky rice morsel. "And it's spicy."

"How does the food compare to Brigid, Dorothea?" Caspar has attacked his food with enthusiasm and is already motioning for seconds.

She thinks about it. "Brigid's food is also well-spiced, but not in the same way. And there are lots of tropical fruits and seafood. It's hard to explain — you'll just have to come visit us there soon, Caspar. All of you." 

"That would be nice," Lysithea says, coral eyes going a bit distant and Dorothea knows she is thinking about time, all the time she does not have but maybe, maybe might regain after this trip. 

She wraps an arm wordlessly around the younger woman and sees Bernadetta press a bit closer from the other side too. Bernie has always been more observant than many people gave her credit for. "You're always welcome there, Lysithea." She gives her a light squeeze then lets go, aware that their youngest member is still sensitive about the perception of being babied.

"Thank you," is the quiet reply she gets back and Dorothea smiles.

"So, Claude has aged well, hasn't he?" Back to lighter topics, as she examines the royal platform. And frowns slightly when she sees the prince seated to Claude's right focused appraisingly on Edelgard before his attention is drawn by his other brother. _Now what could that be about_?

*

Edelgard is served from the same platters as the king and, as the guest of honour, is attended to immediately after Darius himself. The gesture is both a mark of honour and, more prosaically, to discretely dispense with any potential for poisoning without anyone being so uncouth as to raise that concern. A personal attendant discretely tastes each dish before it is served to the king.

The food is delicious, nutty and sweet with just a hint of heat that is chased away by cool water tasting of cucumber and pomegranate. There is also thick fig juice, sweetened with nectar, and a dry red wine that Edelgard sips with the toasts but otherwise leaves alone. 

She makes conversation with Sura, who is solemn but not stiff or overly-formal. Their talk proceeds with relatively ease over military studies, sticking by unspoken agreement to universally-known texts rather than any national specifics. She feels the weight of eyes on her throughout their debate on the merits of a particular fleet formation used in a seminal ancient sea battle, but before she finds an opportunity to look for the source, it lifts. 

"Is my daughter mining you for battle tactics and weaponry care tips?" Darius's voice, tinged with bemused pride, draws her back to her present conversation. Edelgard catches Sura's eyes flickering to her father's table, where he has scrupulously taken a bite of every portion of food but otherwise touched very little. 

"We are discussing the naval stratagems treatise of Admiral Genann of Dagda." It is an ancient text, more than 900 years old, and Edelgard is particularly interested in Sura's thoughts on it, given that Almyra has been, by historical accounts, far more of a sea power than Fodlan. 

Darius strokes his beard in thought. "A worthy subject of discourse. Admiral Genann was a great military thinker, far ahead of his time."

And while Edelgard would like nothing more than to discuss ancient military philosophies, she is keenly aware of why she is sitting here, hundreds of miles away from Enbarr. Now that she is speaking somewhat privately with the king, she cannot resist broaching the main topic. "Your Majesty —"

He interrupts her with a lifted hand. "We are speaking as equals and I am unused to calling anyone else majesty, so I propose we forgo our titles unless you would object to that."

That gives her pause. But, if that is his preference... "I have no objections."

"Excellent. Then, please continue, Edelgard."

Right. She gathers the threads of her previous thoughts. "... Darius," she begins again, hesitating only slightly on his name. "Forgive my forwardness, but may I inquire as to the arrangements for my research team..."

Darius smiles, the expression reaching his eyes. Rather than taking offense at what some may have justifiably viewed as indecorous impatience, he responds seriously, "I have instructed viziers to gather your researchers tomorrow afternoon. They have been gathering the Fodlan items from our vaults and libraries, but the records are old and it may be more efficient if your team joins in their efforts. You will have broad access to the vaults, with supervision as I am sure you understand. Khalid is overseeing the process, so speak with him if you need anything." 

And that makes sense. Claude already knows them, and they him — he is, for more than one reason, the most appropriate conduit through which to mediate and facilitate the Fodlan delegation's activities here. And yet, Edelgard feels an instinctive stab of suspicion as her eyes cut to where Claude is, by all appearances, enjoying the dancing with a merry smile. Pointedly _not_ looking in their direction. 

Still, Darius's arrangements are generous and Edelgard, even in her most optimistic projections, had not expected such immediate levels of access and she responds to him with genuine gratitude. "Thank you. You have my gratitude." 

His eyes crinkle at her. "Perhaps I am getting old, but a constant vigilance on our western front begins to tire me. These past few years have proven, I think, that we need not necessarily continue in trenches dug by our venerated ancestors."

To say Edelgard is shocked to hear such candid words spoken in public (upon their first meeting, no less!) is an understatement and she does her best to keep her face neutral, keenly aware that they have an audience. Their conversation is quiet enough that there is little chance of being overheard over the music, but there are sharp eyes everywhere.

"I cannot say I disagree," she responds slowly, playing for time as she tries to figure out if this is a test. 

"My son speaks highly of you." He can only mean one son and...

 _I cannot imagine I have given him any cause to_ , Edelgard thinks, the acrid taste of something like (but not quite) guilt in the back of her throat. She takes a sip of her fig juice to clear it and says out loud, "Prince Khalid was very much admired in our class for his" _shrewdness_ "sharp mind, so I shall take that as a compliment." She is keenly aware of how her younger self would have reacted to such words from Claude and is briefly distracted by the memory of that haughty, blunt, uncompromising young woman, almost brittle in her steeliness. Seventeen-year-old Edelgard would certainly not have pretended to be flattered, to put it mildly.

"Your Majesty," a new voice intervenes smoothly, and Edelgard lets out small breath. The new voice belongs to a woman who is unmistakably Tiana von Riegan, and not only because of the queen's diadem she wears, with its fragrant jasmine buds and opal-speckled golden trim. Her eyes, like jadeite, have the same inscrutable gleam as her son's.

"Queen Tiana." Edelgard rises to greet her.

Tiana shares an amused look with her husband, and then turns her vibrant gaze back on Edelgard. "I hope that you'll call me Tiana, please. We've concluded the formalities part of the evening." Her Fodlanian retains the lyrical lilt of Derdriu.

"Then please do me the honor of calling me Edelgard."

"The emperor and I have already come to terms on the matter of titles, my love," Darius says, mirth lacing his deep voice. "I am ahead of you for once."

"Do not get used to it," Tiana says, a laugh in her voice and the affection between them is so palpable it startles Edelgard. It's not that she didn't expect the royal couple to care for one another — one does not forsake one's family, homeland and centuries of traditions for anything less than love, presumably — but to see it displayed so openly and mutually is ... different. Certainly, despite her mother's stories of the Goddess Tower, she had not had the opportunity to witness much evidence between her parents of their love story before developments had rendered that forever impossible.

"Edelgard?"

She snaps out of her own mind when she hears Tiana say her name in a way that suggests it is not the first time. "Apologies," she says as smoothly as she can. 

"You must still be tired from your travels," Tiana tuts. She lowers her voice and leans into Edelgard's space conspiratorially. "A word of advice: these festivities can last all night. Do not feel the obligation to remain longer than you are comfortable. The entertainment and wine will keep everyone occupied."

"... thank you. I will keep that in mind."

Tiana winks and smiles, putting Edelgard vividly in mind of Claude. "I'm sure there are many more people waiting to make your acquaintance so I will let you go, but I would be very happy if you would visit me in my private residences once you have had a chance to settle in."

"I would be very pleased to do so." There is a box of high-grade Leicester Cortania tea in her rooms with Tiana von Riegan's name on it, after all.

"Excellent!" Tiana turns to the king, tilting her head as they have what appears to be another wordless conversation. "I admit that I am rather fatigued myself," she announces. "Would you accompany me back to my rooms, Your Majesty?"

Darius nods and the steward hurries forward to support him in rising from his seat. When the king stands, the noise dies down. He waves them down before anyone else can rise as well. "Continue, continue," he says, voice carrying. "My children will be disappointed if you do not all partake fully in the night's festivities."

There is the slightest hesitation before the guests roar their intent to comply with that command, a hundred bronze chalices raising in a good night toast to their king and queen. Sura pads over to stand by her father, flanking him with Tiana. "I will accompany you both back," she says. She nods at Edelgard with a faint smile. "I hope to continue our conversation during your stay here, Lady Edelgard."

Then all three disappear behind a set of shimmering purple curtains.

If she expected the king's departure to mark the beginning of the end of the party, Edelgard soon realizes the error of that thought. Moments after Darius exits, Claude leaps to his feet and apparently that is some kind of signal, because flocks of servants begin to discretely remove and rearrange the low tables, cushions and rugs, clearing out a larger area of uncovered flooring. The music picks up in tempo. Beautifully dressed courtiers, fueled by good food and liberal amounts of wine, begin to rise and sway to the beat. His brothers rise as well, beginning to make their way off the platform to greet and mingle with the guests.

As much as Edelgard hates to admit it, she is far more lost without the structured formalities of the audiences and balls in Fodlan. For a brief awkward moment, she wonders if she will be the only one left standing on the dais when she catches Dorothea's eye and the other woman smoothly ends her conversation with a portly courtier to float unhurriedly (but quite quickly) in her direction. Thank goodness for Dorothea. Making her way to meet up with her, Edelgard wonders with some amusement at herself if that will become her mantra for this trip.

By the platform's edge, she is intercepted by a handsome man, dressed in rich indigo robes, with a neatly trimmed goatee. The second prince, she surmises, remembering his placement to Claude's right, closer to the king.

"Lady Edelgard." He greets her with a wide, charming smile, taking a certain liberty that makes Edelgard wary. From her periphery, she can see Dorothea hovering while managing to look not at all like she is hovering. 

"Prince Farokh." A good memory for names and faces is critical in politics and diplomacy.

"I am honoured you remember," he says with a winning smile, his Fodlanian urbane but slightly accented. When he bends to kiss her gloved hand, he lingers for a beat longer than strictly necessary. "I must say, I am personally very glad you accepted the invitation to personally attend the delegation. I had not expected the Emperor of Adrestia to be so lovely. Had I known sooner, I would have ridden to the border to accompany you back myself."

"I beg your pardon," Edelgard says before she can really think about it.

"Ah, apologies if I have been too forward," He does not sound apologetic in the slightest. "You will find that strength is like an aphrodisiac here in Almyra and you do exude it effortlessly."

She is on the verge of narrowing her eyes when Dorothea's aggressively upbeat "Your Majesty!" chirps from her right. "Oh? Who is this charming gentleman?" 

Her sudden appearance seems to take Farokh aback briefly and Edelgard does not waste her excellent timing. She composes her face back into a diplomatic smile. "Dorothea, this is Prince Farokh of Almyra." She turns back to Farokh. "Prince Farokh, my dear friend and the queen-consort of Brigid, Dorothea Arnault-Macneary."

"Very pleased to meet you, Your Highness," Dorothea says brightly.

Dorothea giggles (with a wink at Edelgard) as Farokh kisses her hand with a "The pleasure is mine, Lady Dorothea."

Sensing that this is an intervention, to his credit, Farokh accepts it graciously and sweeps them both a bow. "I am sure you have others vying for your attention tonight. I hope that we will have more time to spend together ... privately, during your time here. There are many marvels in Ishfa to experience and I am at your service as a humble guide should you wish." He gives her one last pearl-white smile before descending the dais, disappearing into a crowd of courtiers who immediately flock to him.

Pretending to brush some invisible dust off Edelgard's collar, Dorothea leans in beside her and murmurs, "Good thing Hubert isn't here. Assassinating a prince at the welcome ceremony would probably not be considered starting on a goodwill footing." 

And Edelgard cannot help but laugh at that, throaty and genuine, to Dorothea's triumphant beam.

"Come on, Your Majesty, let's go have some fun."

*

After they make routine small talk with a few more officials and viziers, including the portly man Dorothea was engaged with earlier who turns out to be the grand vizier of Almyra, Edelgard declines Dorothea's encouragement to learn Almyran dance routines together, and sits instead with Lysithea and Linhardt (but mostly with Lysithea as Linhardt has fallen asleep on the mound of pillows beside his younger colleague), drinking a very sweet tea spiced with cardamom and ginger. It helps to lift her spirits considerably. 

She finds Caspar easily in the crowd, his robin egg blue hair a beacon among the darker-headed Almyrans. He has found his way to a drinking circle with Nader's men and women, it seems, laughing uproariously about something or other and shaking his fist vigorously. Bernadetta, surprisingly, has been successfully cajoled by Dorothea into the fray, her curiosity about the various stringed instruments being plucked and strummed by the court musicians overcoming her fear of strangers deciding she would make a good ritual sacrifice.

She is telling Lysithea about the arrangements for their access to the Fodlan cache, including Claude's role as their primary point of contact, when a shadow falls over them and does not move on. Speak of the devil. Edelgard is the first to react. "Prince Khalid."

Claude waves away that formality breezily and even as he is already settling down on an opposite pouf, asks, "Mind if I join you? I'm hiding from the head steward and no one will bother me with a question about more wine if I'm with Her Eminence the Emperor of Adrestia. It's hard work keeping a feast like this going strong!"

"You're not fooling anyone, Claude, you live for feasts," Lysithea says with all the certainty of someone who has been roped away from the library and into too many feast-planning sessions.

Claude directs a broad smile at her. "Hello, Lysithea," he says cheerfully, "the last time I saw you, you barely came up to my elbow." An exaggeration, of course, but he has always enjoyed teasing her. "You're almost up to my shoulder now!"

"I've grown up, Claude, you can't rile me up like a child anymore." Lysithea's voice is calmly flat as she takes a deliberate sip of her tea, but Edelgard sees the disgruntled twitch of her eyebrow and Claude surely does as well. 

"I see," Claude says, stroking his chin in a picture of thoughtfulness. "I see that now. I should no longer treat you like a child now that you are a pre-eminent researcher and imperial counselor." 

Said pre-eminent researcher and imperial counselor squares her shoulders and raises her chin in a gesture that reminds Claude vividly of the snowy-haired monarch watching the exchange with cautiously bemused eyes. He has to restrain himself from smiling and breaking his performance of remorse at the small 'hmph' Lysithea does not quite manage to hold back. "Yes," she says, half-imperious (again, Edelgard's influence is only too evident) and half-mollified. "Kindly keep that in mind, Prince Khalid."

Ah, yes, he has missed this. He has always had a soft spot for the (once tiny) genius of House Ordelia. That does not stop him from going on, faux-chastened, "Forgive me. I will have the dessert basket I had delivered to your quarters retrieved at once and replaced with refreshments more appropriate for a mature and sophisticated palate. Coffee perhaps? Unsweetened cocoa?"

The thing about Lysithea is that she has a tell, where her cheeks begin to puff like an irate chipmunk, when she experiences consternation and the idea of being deprived of sugary snacks strongly motivates consternation in her. When Edelgard sees the beginnings of this at the threat of the removal of sweets, she is moved to intervene (and not only because she would also like to benefit from said sweets platter). 

Placing a hand on Lysithea's shoulder, she says to Claude, "I am rather fond of sweets myself, as you may remember. I trust you would not mind if I partake of your thoughtful gift instead." There was once a time when Edelgard would have eaten her weight in chili peppers rather than admit a weakness for sugar to anyone, but, well... Lysithea is not the only one who has grown up in the intervening years. 

Claude's eyes gleam with amusement. "I would be delighted and honored if you would deign to take pleasure in my small offering."

The overwrought sentiment causes her to lift an eyebrow but she refrains from commenting, certain that would only encourage him. "The king tells me you are overseeing the cataloguing of items to be returned."

"Ah, right to business. Very in-character."

Edelgard struggles not to purse her lips at him and is not entirely confident she succeeds. 

"No need to frown at me, Edelgard — it's alright to drop the formalities among ourselves, no?" Claude says with a small laugh, hands held up placatingly. "I simply find it reassuring that you have not changed much."

Now Edelgard does frown at him but she cannot find a way to object and assert that she has, indeed, changed in many ways without coming across as defensive.

"Oh, I fear I may have said the wrong thing again." Claude does not sound the least bit fearful of any such thing.

Lysithea gives him an arch knowing look. "Since when have you ever been afraid of that?"

"Now you're ganging up on me," he laughs, signalling an attendant over for a tea refill. "I surrender. Yes, I have been assigned the privilege of making sure that your historic visit in our fair capital goes smoothly." His easygoing demeanor drops momentarily, eyes going serious. "I do not know what you are looking for, but if you need anything, don't hesitate to let me know." Then he lounges back and the cheer returns. "I am your humble servant here."

As if Claude would ever be anyone's humble anything, much less a servant. The very mental picture is unsettling. "We look forward to your assistance."

"You can count on me, Your Majesty," he returns cheerfully, using her title in a way Edelgard would call facetious if not for how accusatory that would sound, all smiles as he sips his fresh tea. "Oh, this is good! Maybe I should get everyone to try this instead of depleting the rest of the wine..."

As Lysithea tops up her own tea and spoons more sugar into the cup, Edelgard takes the opportunity to say, keeping her tone casual though she harbours no illusions that Claude will buy it, "I've not yet thanked you for the invitation to visit Ishfa."

He gives her a look that says he is well aware she is fishing, but answers, "Alas, I do not deserve that thanks as I am not the one who issued the invitation for your personal attendance here, although rest assured that I am, _of course_ , overjoyed that you are here." 

She's not sure if she believes him — had not been able to read his moods or tells accurately even when they had seen each other nearly every day — but _if_ he is telling the truth, if there is the grain of truth she thinks she hears in that... if not him, then who?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter turned into more of a beast than anticipated (Claude has a lot of siblings - not all of whom even got speaking roles in this one!), but the pacing should pick up after this. Thanks to everyone who read, left kudos, or commented!
> 
> Thanks also to all the travel pieces I read about Morocco that inspired many of the scene depictions.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we check in briefly with Enbarr and Edelgard attempts a perfect teatime with Tiana von Riegan.

Just over two weeks after the Adrestian delegation set off for Almyra, Hubert is already on edge. The spy report from Fodlan’s Locket does nothing to calm his nerves over the potential bear trap into which Edelgard is venturing. Meanwhile, Professor Hanneman's experiments did not yield conclusive results prior to his being recalled to Garreg Mach for the new semester so the Institute researchers are continuing on as best they can in the absence of their Chief and with remote supervision from Hanneman a semi-regular basis. 

To say that the Empire's Minister of the Imperial Household is on edge is, in fact, an understatement.

"Hubert, please stop pacing and come to bed." Ferdinand's eyes are starting to ache from watching his partner wear a groove in their bedroom floor for the past half hour. For the vast majority of their acquaintance, Ferdinand would have sworn on his von Aegir name that Hubert was a brooder — the type to sit or stand for hours, turning over a problem or mild annoyance in his head wordlessly and making everyone else uncomfortable with his oppressive silence. Hubert is certainly that, but apparently in front of people with whom he is comfortable (whose names are not Edelgard), he can also be a frenetic ball of pent-up energy. 

In other words, as much a serial pacer as a brooder.

"Hubert."

"We should have received word of her safe arrival by now."

Ferdinand sighs, tucking a lock of copper hair behind his ear. "Even with the dedicated courier, it will take four days for any news to reach us." That had been one of the biggest victories in their negotiations with the Almyrans: a wyvern-pegasus relay courier to carry correspondence between Enbarr and Ishfa as quickly as possible for the duration of Edelgard's visit. "Edelgard is very capable, as are the people accompanying her. You know that better than most."

Hubert finally approaches his side of the bed and sits down stiffly, body angled toward Ferdinand. "I do know that. I am confident Lady Edelgard will excel and succeed on this mission as she has with all other things. But I cannot shake the feeling that we are all missing something crucial."

"And you still do not trust Claude," Ferdinand guesses.

"No more than I can throw that wyvern of his," Hubert mutters darkly.

Right. Of course. While Ferdinand knows where Hubert is coming from, he cannot say he harbors the same depth of suspicion for the former head of Golden Deer House. The Claude he remembers from their Academy days was crafty, enigmatic, irreverent, prying without ever sharing, that is all true, but also easygoing, cheerful, protective of his Housemates, the bend of his strategic thinking (or what Hubert and Edelgard would both refer to as borderline cheating) focused as much, if not more, on keeping his teammates safe as on winning. That had carried over to his leadership in wartime.

And while Ferdinand has never understood the preference for trickery instead of forthright battle, he did, and does, respect Claude's loyalty to his allies and the man's brilliant strategic mind. None of which is helpful to point out to Hubert right now.

"You fretting through the night is not terribly useful to Edelgard," he says instead, having learned that invoking the utility (or lack thereof) of any actions to Edelgard is almost always a surefire way to draw Hubert out from some of his deeper funks. Ferdinand has long made peace with that. Edelgard has and always will occupy a special untouchable pedestal in Hubert's heart, so he may as well use it to his advantage if he can. (Such thoughts make him realize how much Hubert has rubbed off on him.)

Sure enough, Hubert takes a sharp breath and visibly shakes the gloom off without actually moving. His dark eyes cut sideways to Ferdinand, a knowing glint in them that says he recognizes exactly what Ferdinand is doing. Ferdinand looks back with innocent eyes.

"You are getting to know me too well."

Ferdinand beams. He takes that as a compliment! "I should hope so! I did succeed in my courtship after all."

As expected, Hubert groans and Ferdinand is secretly delighted. Distraction successful. "I wish you would not call it that."

"Yes, yes," Ferdinand agrees with no intention of following through. He leans in to press a kiss to the corner of Hubert's mouth and thrills when Hubert turns his head slightly to meet his lips. Small victories should nevertheless be cherished and, besides, is there such a thing as a small victory with Hubert? 

(Hubert, for his part, knows that he has been losing with more regularity to Ferdinand's particular brand of relentless optimism and loud sincerity for years now and even if he is not exactly _unwilling_ , that doesn't make him any happier to be _losing_. Does that make sense? No? Welcome to the mind of Hubert von Vestra.)

"We will welcome Edelgard and our friends back with a grand celebration. If the timing works out, we will toast to both their success and Her Majesty’s birthday!"

"I shall look forward to that." 

*

The day after the welcome ceremony dawns bright and cloudless, the crispness of the early morning dissipating swiftly at the pressing rays of the unobstructed sun. 

Edelgard’s first proper morning in Ishfa is spent composing a brief letter to Hubert with assurances of her safe arrival, instructions not to worry (which she knows will be flagrantly ignored), and a request for a progress report on the educational reforms. She fully expects her letters to be read between her sealing the envelope and its delivery to Hubert in Enbarr. She is not offended by the thought — frankly, she would be more insulted if Almyra did not deem her mail worthy of covert review. And Almyra is welcome to her thoughts on the benefits of universal education.

An elaborate arrangement of flowers arrives for her in the afternoon with a handwritten note on thick, rosewater-perfumed paper. 

_My dear Lady Edelgard,_

 _I hope you had a pleasant night’s rest._ _I regret that we were not able to spend more time together at your welcome ceremony and do hope to have the good fortune to speak again soon, perhaps over tea and cakes tomorrow?_

_Yours,_

_Farokh_

Dorothea’s eyebrows do an interesting shimmy as she reads the note aloud to Edelgard. “Persistent, isn’t he? Reminds me of some of my more obstinate suitors.”

Edelgard looks up from where she is contemplating her first draft of a pilot program for expanding the Officers Academy to include more students from non-noble backgrounds. “I cannot imagine he was moved by my great personal beauty and charms,” she says, a touch of wryness in her voice as she shares a look with Dorothea. “My crown, on the other hand…” 

“ _I_ have always found your great personal beauty and charms _very_ moving, Edie,” Dorothea assures her with a wink. 

Edelgard laughs, shaking her head. “In any case, I’ll have to disappoint him. I have already promised to take tea with the queen tomorrow.”

*

The queen's private quarters are an entire residence unto itself, located in the western wing of the palace, complete with its own nesting doll set of hanging gardens, fountains, tea pavilions, and riding grounds. The outer walls are painted with cerulean waves, outlined in gold, a crimson sun making its way over the wide expanse of stucco, broken only by open doorways and windows. 

Tiana is waiting for her in one of the shaded gardens that remains moderately cool despite the scorching daytime sun. The attendant leading her stops at the doorway and bows her in, but does not follow. Tiana is seated alone on one of two carved divans, with a low bronze-topped table in between.

"Queen Tiana." Edelgard dips a courtesy curtsy in greeting. She may be a monarch and technically outrank Tiana, but she is a guest here and unless Tiana gives her a reason not to, she will show her due respect. "Thank you for your kind invitation."

Tiana rises to greet her with a kiss to the cheek, the intimacy of the gesture surprising Edelgard. "I'm happy you were able to come. You must have received many such invitations, I imagine." 

She had. Aside from Farokh’s note, a formal invite had arrived from the grand vizier and various calling cards from courtiers had been waiting for her after breakfast. Instead of commenting on those, Edelgard presents to Tiana the silk-wrapped box she's brought with her. 

"It is not much," she says, "but I thought you might enjoy the season's first flush of Leicester Cortania." 

Tiana's eyes light up as she accepts the gift, handling it with care. "This is my favourite tea! I have not had this since... oh, a very long time. The few caravans that make their way from Fodlan do not carry such precious wares."

That's what Edelgard had expected. "I am very pleased you like it."

"This is a most thoughtful gift, thank you, Edelgard," Tiana says, genuine warmth in her voice. "Hopefully, you were able to take a breath yesterday. The journey from Derdriu is long enough — I can only imagine how taxing the road from Enbarr was. Please, do sit."

Edelgard murmurs a thanks as she settles onto the other divan, the smooth wood blessedly cool through the layers of her Adrestian court dress that is not at all suited for a semi-desert climate. Tiana is dressed far more appropriately in a gauzy silk robe with a broad jeweled collar over a violet brocade dress, stitched with gold thread.

"I was grateful to have the chance to settle in yesterday," Edelgard admits. After the weeks-long travel and welcome banquet, having a day of quiet where she could gather her thoughts and marshal her energy, undisturbed, had been a great relief. Bernadetta had clearly felt the same and did not leave the sanctuary of her sleeping area, which she'd fortified with pillows and hung sheets, except for quick meals. Edelgard is still impressed Dorothea managed to talk her into visiting the court musicians' quarters with her today, though she expects the promise of a trip to the kitchens for a snack run afterwards helped to sweeten the deal considerably.

There being no attendants in the garden with them, Tiana personally pours them both tea from a carafe that looks impressively cool, condensation prickling the detailed copper surface. When Tiana catches her eyeing it, she smiles. "What talent I had for magic has proven exceptionally useful here."

Edelgard is grateful for that as she takes a long drink of the cool honey-sweetened mint tea. The residual heat had been making her feel slightly lightheaded, but the shade and cold drink are helping to steady her again. 

"Your gardens are beautiful," Edelgard says and means it as she looks around, with some envy, at the diverse, artfully overgrown lushness of green surrounding them. Broad-leafed plants compete with brilliant jewel-toned flowers and delicate pastel petals for the eye's attention. 

"Thank you. I am very fond of it. Do you enjoy gardening?"

"I do, but I'm afraid I have neither the talent nor the patience for it most of the time." It had started out as something she did to pass the time with Bernadetta during the War, finding that partaking in a quiet activity together helped to alleviate the apparent anxiety her presence caused in the other woman. 

Over time, Edelgard began to genuinely find it calming, but she is not lying about her lack of talent. The time she managed to dehydrate a plant Bernadetta had assured her was indestructible, the archer was so amazed, she lectured Edelgard for a full five minutes before cutting off with a squeak while Edelgard hid a chuckle. She's gotten better since then, but ... well, not good enough that she is permitted to do much more than water her plants on a schedule that the royal gardener provides. Not unlike her time at the Officers Academy.

"I've not the patience for it either," Tiana confesses. "But most of the plants and flowers here are quite sturdy so they've withstood even my ministrations. Gardens are a key element of Almyran culture and highly prized. There is a separate greenhouse elsewhere in the palace that grows the more delicate, uncommon plants, including the flowers used for the crown garlands. It is worth a visit when you have the time."

"I shall keep that in mind. I was fond of the greenhouse at the monastery during my student days but did not have the opportunity to visit often outside of assigned watering duties." She is fairly certain Tiana knows at least the broad strokes of why Edelgard had so little time for the greenhouse at the Academy but there is no knowing spark in those green eyes at Edelgard's comment.

"Khalid does not talk much about his time in Fodlan but he does speak very fondly of his time at the monastery. It holds good memories for him."

Thinking back to the mock battles and training sessions, late nights in the library and raucous dining room meals, Edelgard can understand the brightness of those fleeting months, particularly when juxtaposed against the long, grim years of war that followed. "We did not know each other well at the Academy," she says truthfully, "but my time there was precious to me as well. I expect for many of the same reasons."

Tiana smiles, takes a sip of her tea, and Edelgard feels strangely like she did when answering a question correctly in class. "Now, you must be wondering who is responsible for insisting on your personal attendance in the visiting delegation."

Edelgard barely manages to contain her surprise at the whiplash-quick turn of the conversation from pleasantries to a blunt acknowledgement of the puzzle that has needled her since that first return letter. "Yes," she responds carefully, watching Tiana setting down her teacup with her left hand. "I did wonder at the invitation given the historic relationship between our nations."

An astute sharpness flickers like a blown ember in Tiana's eyes, gone so quickly that, had Edelgard not been fully prepared to meet the woman who raised Claude von Riegan, she would have doubted whether she saw anything at all. "Of course. I am sure you had advisers counsel caution and the possibility of a trap." It is useless to deny that, so Edelgard does not react, waiting. "I am sure you've surmised by now that I was the one who raised the request." A short pause. "I wanted to have the opportunity to say thank you. For allowing my son to come back to me."

Edelgard stiffens — she had not expected to discuss the War today and is not inclined to submit to any probing questions or offer any explanations. But when she looks at Tiana, she does not see any bitterness or accusation, and hears no sarcasm in the soft cadence of her words. She sounds sincere, open, green eyes glimmering with a strong emotion that Edelgard has rarely seen directed at her but recognizes as perhaps... gratitude or something stronger. Something that answers the question of why Tiana's dismissed her attendants from the garden for this innocuous meeting. Something that says her decision to spare Claude three years ago has caused ripples she may not yet fully grasp. 

She doesn't know what to say. _You're welcome_ seems entirely too trite and implies that she deserved the thanks in the first place. Which, at the heart of it, Edelgard feels like she does not. She did not _save_ Claude — she _spared_ him, in a war of her initiating, however necessary that initiation had been. 

"I did not ask you here to put you on the spot or to interrogate you. War demands certain actions and mercy is not an easy choice. I do understand that. Almyra fights her share of battles. So, regardless of the reasons, you have my gratitude, as a mother."

Thrown by the unexpected sympathy in Tiana's words and bearing, Edelgard takes brief refuge in her tea. "I appreciate your kind words, Queen Tiana." _Although I am uncertain whether I deserve them_. "I hope that we can work together to decrease the burden of battles that are shouldered by both of our peoples." _Oh._ She blinks when she hears her own words. That had not been planned.

If Tiana notices her split-second of disorientation, she does not react to it, instead reaching to refill Edelgard's cup with a smile. "Yes, I hope so as well. I understand that Darius has mentioned something of his thoughts on the matter to you at the banquet as well." She shifts to catch Edelgard's eyes. "I understand that our invitation to you must have appeared irregular, even suspicious, and I do not fault any skepticism you or your advisers may harbor."

Edelgard keeps her face blank — this kind of poker face is far more in her element. 

But Tiana does not appear to be searching for a micro-expression confirming her words as she continues, "I am glad, and I know the king is pleased as well, that you accepted and are here. For many years now, the sporadic fighting along Fodlan's Throat — in Almyra, it is called Dragon Skull Pass — have been more about form than substance, but people on both sides of the border still suffer. It is particularly inexcusable when the losses are meaningless." A rueful smile quirks at her lips, eyes fond but sad. "In fact, Khalid made a point of saying so to his father when he returned from Fodlan. Something about delivering a message."

Edelgard shakes her head wordlessly at the questioning look Tiana gives her. If true, she certainly has no knowledge of whom Claude was referring to.

"Well, the specifics matter less than the substance. I am sure it is a message many of our citizens along the border have wished for us to hear for a long time. You have no reason to trust me, Edelgard, though I hope you will come to, but let me assure you that our motives in extending the invite to you are as stated in our first letter."

She weighs that, tries to discern how much truth there may be and how much remains veiled. "Why now?"

"We had discussed it for some time, so your letter, when it came, seemed like a sign." Tiana sighs, her eyes looking past Edelgard as though seeing something far away and Edelgard realizes with abrupt clarity that Tiana's garden, and her divan within it, sit facing westward towards Fodlan. "I have not been home in decades, a decision of my own choosing and one that I absolutely do not regret. However, I would like to be able to pay my respects at my father and brother's graves."

 _Why did you leave?_ The question claws at her throat, but Edelgard swallows it. To this day, the abrupt disappearance of one of the most sought-after and, by all accounts, brilliant women in Fodlan remains something of a favourite pastime to speculate on among the citizenry. Something must show up in her facial expression because Tiana continues after a pause.

“I left because I wanted to seek freedom and adventure. I possess a Crest which, as you know well, meant that no matter my other strengths or weaknesses, my greatest value in the eyes of Fodlan would always be that one thing over which I had no control. And I would be expected to breed as many children as my body could withstand to ensure the Crest is passed on.” 

Edelgard struggles to keep her breathing steady. Tiana understands. She understands the deep cracks within Fodlan, understood them decades ago, and chose to leave. _Would you have been willing to help me carve out the rot in old regime?_ How much faster would the War have ended if she had remained and supported Edelgard in the Alliance? 

“So you see, Edelgard, I was not unsympathetic with your cause. And I find myself curious as to what the Fodlan of your vision might look like.”

*

"Do you believe her?"

Edelgard considers the question. "I believe she has not lied to me about her motivations, though I doubt she has told me the whole of it."

Dorothea nods. Edelgard had returned from her singular teatime with Tiana to find her and Bernadetta back from their explorations, with Dorothea lounging in the main chambers and Bernadetta recovering from the social interactions among her pillows. When Edelgard checked in on her, she had been happily, if sleepily, armed with an embroidery kit and about eighty different shades of thread so Edelgard had retreated and left her alone.

"And peace on Fodlan's eastern border is an attractive idea, isn't it?"

"It is. If there is a genuine desire to bring that about, I welcome it."

Dorothea laughs softly, knowingly. "The wrinkle between your eyebrows say you have some reservations."

Dorothea always did have a gift for reading people. "It still feels like we are missing a critical piece of information. Even at the welcome ceremony, did it not feel to you like people were on edge?" She wants to accept Tiana’s words and the hope it carries for a peaceful, maybe even fruitful, future relationship with Almyra, but her cold logical side remains wary.

"Well, now that you mention it, there was a certain tension to the mood, even through all the drinking and laughing. I had it pinned on the occasion itself. It must be hard let loose and celebrate properly when the political stakes are potentially so high."

That is similar to the reason Holst offered for the eldest royal children's sprint home. And the same feeling of unease weighs on Edelgard even as she acknowledges the validity and logic of that explanation.

"Perhaps."

"Lysithea will be happy that her left-handedness deduction was accurate."

*

Lysithea is indeed pleased when told at dinner and reports that her day in the library had started on a promising note. "Linhardt, how were the artifacts?"

"Hm?" Linhardt looks like he is about to fall asleep into his chilled soup. "Oh, fascinating. None of them are anything near the level of the Hero Relics, of course, but some bear markings I recognize from Professor Hanneman's last paper."

Lysithea perks up. "The one on the theory behind imbuing objects with Crest-like abilities?"

He nods.

That gets Edelgard's attention. "If we could do that, in sufficiently large quantities with ease, it will no longer matter whether anyone is born with a Crest." It had not occurred to her that the lost artifacts found here may be able to assist in that branch of research as well. If so, that would be a significant bonus to their trip. 

"It will be hard to confirm anything from here."

"Were you able to tell what materials were used?" Lysithea asks, swallowing a mouthful of fruit salad. 

Linhardt shakes his head, popping a piece of honeyed bread into his mouth and chewing thoughtfully. "Plenty of gold and precious gems, as you can expect, but it is not clear which is the critical element. There may be hidden metals not visible on the surface that acts as the conduit. I would be able to tell you a lot more once I have a chance to examine them with the tools at the Institute and consult with the professor."

Now she wants even more to return to Fodlan as soon as possible. 

"Can I help with anything?"

"Partly due to the records, and partly due to the fact that written materials are organized differently from artifacts, the books and scrolls will likely take more effort to locate. The royal library is very big and organized differently than any I've seen in Fodlan. Luckily, most of the Houses would have stamped their belongings with House insignias. I am working through the specialized subject matter sections but there is also a chronological section corresponding to the era of the war. An extra set of eyes to go through that section would be helpful. At least until Linhardt finishes at the vault."

"I will accompany you to the library tomorrow."

Which is how Edelgard ends up in the royal Almyran library, watching the dust motes dance in the sunbeams shining down from the giant skylight and streaming through the tall windows, Claude humming beside her. 

"Why are you here?"

"Lysithea looked like she was ready to use Hades on me if I didn't leave her alone," he replies cheerfully, not actually answering her question. "So I thought I'd come see if I could be of assistance to Your Majesty."

"Please stop that." His use of her title set her teeth on edge. "As you said, we don't need those formalities among ourselves."

"As you wish."

Edelgard will _not_ give him the satisfaction of rolling her eyes at him. "I had tea with the queen yesterday."

His hands still for an instant before they're running along the row of vellum bindings again. "She must have been pleased."

There is a swarm of questions buzzing in her mind about Tiana, the Almyran court, his brothers, but ... well, she and Claude do not have that kind of relationship. That kind of trust. So Edelgard says nothing, her gaze snagging on a fading sigil embossed on a pebbled leather spine above her. She squints a bit, not recognizing the symbol, but it may have belonged to one of the older Houses that have since declined into anonymity. It sits two shelves above where she can comfortably reach.

She's looking for the nearest rolling ladder when she feels Claude step closer, head lifted toward where she had been looking. Trust him not to miss anything. "Which one is it?"

Edelgard considers telling him she can handle it herself, but it sounds too petulant even in her head. Is this why Lysithea sent him away? Stifling a sigh, she points up at the thin volume as accurately as she can. "That one, do you see it? It's black so the insignia is not that obvious..."

"Ah." Claude steps further into her personal space before she can move away, close enough that she can feel the heat radiating off him and catch a subtle scent of woodsy spice, and now that she is crowded, Edelgard stubbornly does not retreat. He does not seem to notice as he reaches up and easily plucks out the book in question, flipping the cover open. "House Challant. They died out over a hundred years ago, but they used to sit between Goneril and Ordelia as a minor power." The name only rings a faint bell for Edelgard. He flips another few pages. "Apparently that didn't stop them from having an impeccable eye for art." 

He lowers the book, angling it toward Edelgard to show her a beautiful illumination depicting the goddess cleaving a path through mountain range and bestowing what is unmistakably the Sword of the Creator to a grateful, kneeling King of Liberation. Although she knows very well the ugly truth behind the myth, she can still understand why the scene is captivating, with its vivid colours, fine detailing of the divinity’s armored gown, the grace and majesty of her expression, all lovingly rendered by an unknown, incredibly talented hand centuries ago. 

The look on her face must give away some of the emotions stirring in her chest as Claude laughs, the huff of his breath stirring her hair, and says, "Right? Ignatz would have a field day with this. This is what he must have meant when he talked about his love for the goddess and art. Faith is a strong motivator, for better or worse."

Now Edelgard does take a prim step back, tearing her eyes away from the breathtaking painting in the unassuming little book that had belonged to a minor nobility to meet Claude's with a hard look. "It was built on a millennium of lies. Truth is the greater force."

He half-shrugs, not pressing the issue. "I am not disagreeing with you. Still, you can't deny this is a beautiful piece."

No, she cannot but she does not spare it another glance as she turns her searching eyes back to the shelves. 

*

By the time the sun is directly over the skylight, Edelgard and Claude have managed to find one more book and a weathered-looking scroll between the two of them, with sore eyes and strained necks to show for it. When Edelgard's stomach lets out a small growl that is more audible that she would have liked in the quiet of the library, Claude looks at her pensively and says, "Shall we bring these back to Lysithea and see how she's gotten on?"

Recognizing the offer to take a break, Edelgard is grateful to take it and nods. She is unprepared for the bright smile he flashes her as he picks up their scant findings and sets off in the direction of the medical texts that Lysithea has ensconced herself in. They do not find her there and a passing librarian mentions having seen her hurry out with a thin folio a little while ago.

"In the direction of the vaults," she says, pointing.

"Thank you," Claude tells her before turning back to Edelgard, hands clasped behind his head. "Looks like we've been left behind." He looks her over with a somewhat critical expression that Edelgard does not find flattering at all. "You are not dressed to be heading out at midday. There's a small terrace attached to the library — could I trouble you to show her Majesty the way?" he asks the librarian. "Wait there, ok?" And before Edelgard can respond either way, he's heading out the door, robes swirling behind him.

"Your Majesty?" The librarian hovers slightly ahead. With nothing better to do, she follows her through the central dome of the library, past small rounded alcoves and out a small wooden door onto an outdoor terrace, shaded by the second story balcony. Despite the glare of the sun on the fountains in the courtyard beyond, the shaded area is tolerably warm and there is a light breeze.

"Thank you."

The librarian bows before slipping back through the door into the library. Edelgard takes a seat in one of the low curved benches surrounding a central table with woven baskets along one side, rotating her head to try to work out the knots in her neck. She has no idea where Claude has gone and eventually is lulled into relaxing, head resting back against the carved wood, face turned up to the breeze carrying with it the fragrance of flowering trees. The fountains burble gently in the background. Maybe she'll rest her eyes for just a minute...

“Edelgard.”

She snaps awake at the sound of her name, one hand reaching for her hidden dagger before realizing that it is Claude who called her, standing somewhat gingerly an arms-length away. When he sees recognition dawn on her, he relaxes.

"I'm back. I thought you might want to eat lunch?"

That's when Edelgard notices the spread on the table, complete with a large jug of water with cucumber slices and a sprig of some herb she does not recognize. At that reminder of food, her stomach gives an interested rumble.

This time Claude does grin and Edelgard blames her flush on the afternoon heat. He settles down across from her, legs crossed, and helpfully introduces each dish. "I also sent a set to the vaults," he says, pouring water for them both. "I don't know about Linhardt, but I remember Lysithea having a tendency to forget meals entirely when she's focused on something."

Lysithea still has that habit, Edelgard knows. "Thank you."

"Don't mention it," Claude grins. "Oh, here, I brought something else." He stuffs a flaky torn piece of bread dipped in the eggplant, garlic and mint spread into his mouth before reaching down beside him to pull out a heavy wooden board, with a central row of eight fields that is accompanied on either side by four fields on one end. There are symbols, a curl of a snake here, a lean hunting dog there, painted by several of the fields. Edelgard is immediately intrigued. She watches intently as Claude opens a small drawer built into the base of the board and pulls out unfamiliar pieces, lining them up on opposing sides of the board, and a small six-sided dice, which he places in the middle.

"I've never seen this kind of board before."

"I'd be shocked if you had. It's a traditional Almyran game. Interested?"

She is, but ... her eyes flicker back to the library. 

Claude laughs and taps the board to draw her attention back to it. "I'll teach you the rules over lunch and we'll get back to work after. How about that? I'm very good at multitasking." He throws in a wink for good measure.

The familiar exasperation does not quite bury the enticement of a new strategy game, so Edelgard nods sharply, reaching for an almond and walnut pastry, eyes following Claude's nimble fingers around the board as he explains the pieces, rules and objectives. They end up playing a practice round, in which he beats her easily, all of his pieces skipping off her side of the board before most of hers have even made it to the halfway point and of course there's nothing else for her to do after that but demand a rematch, which he still wins but she successfully marches all of her pieces past the central row. She is so pleased, already going over what she could have done better and scrutinizing his tactics, that she misses the considering look Claude gives her before he begins to rearrange the board again. 

"One more game?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These chapters are just ballooning in length. And we still haven't met all of Claude's siblings!! This is going to be longer ride than I originally planned. Story of my life.
> 
> The board game is loosely based on an ancient Persian board game whose only name I could find is the 'game of twenty' and bears similarities to the Egyptian game of senet.
> 
> Thank you to everyone sticking with me so far. Would love to hear what you think of this chapter!


	5. Chapter 5

The popular tea house in the middle of the city is packed to the gills, as usual, with men and women alike lounging in the comfortable bright cushions, nursing fragrant teas or fragrant pipes and enjoying the rhythmic swaying of dancers at center stage. No one pays any mind to the two men seated together in a darker corner, half-hidden by a painted column. Just two more strangers seeking to escape the midday sun with dance and shade and tea. 

It is always darkest under the brightest lamp. Nowhere better for a meeting that should go unnoticed than the most crowded public establishments.

"She will not back him. She tried to kill him," the younger man says, face obscured by the customary head coverings to protect against the sun, eyes focused solely on his associate.

The older man is better at hiding his intensity, tawny eyes sweeping lazily over the crowd, taking the time to appreciate the lead dancers soft curves and sinuous movements. He speaks quietly, swallowing the sound of his words almost before they can escape out into the world. "It matters not whether she actively does so or not. It matters only what the court sees and believes. It sees that she did not kill him, though she had the chance. It sees that she is a conquering victor in her own lands with him as the only one who can claim a personal acquaintance. It sees who his mother is, from where she hails. His mother is no fool. Her very presence here strengthens his claim. If she is to back any candidate, it is not unreasonable to believe that it would be him."

"Farokh appears to be trying his best to persuade her otherwise."

"Farokh is a fool. I have no idea what Roshan sees in him. Still," he pauses to take a unhurried puff on his pipe, "she is fresh meat thrown to starving vultures. She carries with her the potential of resources and power from outside Almyra. The temptation is understandable but he does not have the skill to pull it off. I find it hard to imagine that she will be swayed by his pretty words or pretty flowers. No, Khalid remains the threat, as ever, and every day that woman remains in Ishfa is wind in his sails. It is why he takes every opportunity to be seen in public with her." 

" _Overseeing_ the visit, my ass." 

Once, the older man would have reproved him for his language as unbefitting of his status. But that time is behind both of them now and there are more pressing concerns to address. "We must find a way to shorten her visit and send our esteemed guest back across the Pass soon." The sarcasm in his voice on the word 'esteemed' cuts like sharpened steel threads. "Once she is gone, the currents will again settle in our favour. The fragile balance from before has already been disrupted but so long as we hold off any momentum from the others, it will inevitable shift to us. Things have changed. Your brother has returned. And the king..." Well, there are still some things that cannot be said out loud.

"And what about the half-blood? Should we not deal with him? He has been a poison needle in our midst for too long. Better that the witch _had_ taken his head — I would have toasted to her health in truth." 

A sharp glance from the older man, the first sign of reproach. "Patience. Do not unsettle the board unnecessarily. The rightful successor will be named. Remember, we are not starving animals, to sink so low as to consider eating filth."

"I do not need to be reminded of that. The strength of cowards is no strength at all." He spits a foul epithet, rising to his feet. No one pays him any mind as the musicians strike up a fresh melody. "I am heading back. Mother has summoned us for tea this evening."

The other man acknowledges that with a nod. "I would be grateful if you would give her my greetings. I will finish my pipe." They have their own secret ways in and out of the fortified walls, but no need to risk any undue whispers by returning together.

Without any further goodbye, the younger man turns and stalks out in the sun, wrapping his head scarf more firmly around his hair. The old man always counsels patience, but what has patience gotten them? Years of stalemate and now, a nest of Fodlanian rats within their very walls. 

*

It is close to midnight, the moon already well into her journey across the night sky, but Edelgard is still awake. She has a habit of working late and knows that candles and lamp oil expenses have risen dramatically since she settled back into the palace at Enbarr. (Nightmares have been constant companions for too long for sleep to be something that came easily.)

Tonight, she is burning Almyran lamp oil, studying the heavy wooden board Claude had given her after that first day at the library, puzzling out its tricks and traps and havens. The others have all retired to the inner chambers. As she plots out strategies and imagines tiny carved pieces spreading across the fields, tripping in and out of springing traps, the part of her that has honed survival instincts down to a fine edge abruptly flares to attention though Edelgard cannot say what exactly sparked it. Raising her head, she glances out at the murky darkness beyond the doorway, skin prickling. As usual, she has dismissed all attendants and there should be no one in the courtyard.

The sound of unfamiliar footsteps approaching has her on her feet immediately, the hilt of her dagger pressing against her palm from where it is hidden within her sleeve, when she registers green eyes, a gold earring — 

"Claude?"

"Good evening, Edelgard." The greeting is slightly strained, his eyes too bright in the low lamplight, as he crosses the threshold without waiting for an invitation. There's a light sheen of sweat on his forehead. Edelgard retracts her dagger. "Sorry for the late night call but do you mind if I stay for a cup of tea — _whoop_ "

Instinctively, Edelgard moves forward to support him as his knees buckle and Claude pitches forward, noticing for the first time the bloom of red that has seeped through his tunic at his side. 

The other women, roused by the commotion, cluster around them with wide eyes. There is a look in Claude's eyes that Edelgard might term pleading were it anyone else and she sighs, maneuvering him gently onto a divan. "Is anyone following you?"

"Not sure. Didn't think they'd follow me in _here_ ," Claude mutters. His skin looks clammy.

"Well," Dorothea says, her voice a blade under bright silk. "Let's go check the courtyard for pests, shall we, Lysithea? Wouldn't want any creepy-crawlies accidentally making it in here."

"Agreed," Lysithea says, and _her_ voice is a full furnace. They step out together as one, magical energies crackling. Edelgard does not envy whoever meets them in the dark.

"Bernadetta, get Linhardt please."

"Y-yes!"

She looks back at the man on her couch. "Did you bring assassins to my doorstep, Prince Khalid?" she asks, without rancor.

He winces. "Would it help if I said they're only interested in _my_ head?"

"Well, they're not getting anyone's head tonight." She hears the low tell-tale buzz of Swarm outside followed by muffled yelps. Then a knock and Dorothea's voice sweetly assuring the guards that nothing is wrong, they were just dealing with some _rather large_ flies but everything is under control, no need to worry, good night.

"Thank you," he sighs, and the utter lack of any hidden flippancy or banter in those words worries Edelgard more than the blood. She is no expert at healing but she has dealt, and received, enough wounds to know that the amount of blood lost here does not signify a large injury, much less a fatal one. The stain is not visibly growing, which means the wound is clotting.

So why does Claude look like he's about to faint? 

Thankfully, Linhardt is stepping into the room, trailed by Bernadetta. They'd evidently opted to let Caspar continue sleeping. Dorothea and Lysithea follow closely behind, Dorothea smiling beatifically, not a hair out of place. The smile falls away as soon as she sees Claude crumpled like a ragdoll on the divan.

Edelgard shifts to give Linhardt more space, but keeps her hand at the back of Claude's head, supporting it as he smiles a greeting to Linhardt. Who predictably ignores it and tugs apart the rip in Claude's tunic to place a hand above the open cut, where the bleeding has indeed slowed to a trickle around clumps of dark red. She recognizes the glowing Heal rune that shimmers in the air but does not understand the dip in Linhardt's mouth once it fades. 

"I closed the cut," he says, staring at the now-unblemished skin as though it personally offended him, "but..." his eyes flicker to Claude who attempts a very weak shrug "... you already know about the poison."

"Poison?" Lysithea demands, hovering, face scrunched in worry, behind Linhardt.

"Is it lethal?" 

"Probably," Linhardt says.

"No," Claude breathes emphatically at the same time. At their collective disbelieving stares, he groans. "Look, I have a high tolerance, ok? I know what this is — it won't kill me but —" he winces "— I'll probably have to stay the night."

"Scandalous," Dorothea cannot help murmuring to Claude's bemused glance.

"Never fear, I shall be out of your hair before dawn with no one the wiser."

"Is there anything else that can be done?" Edelgard ignores them both and directs the question at Linhardt, who looks down at his patient with a mostly blank expression that she has come to know as his thinking face.

"I have the standard vulneraries and antitoxins, but..."

Claude shakes his head. Belatedly, Edelgard grabs a pillow to place behind his head and neck and removes her arm from beneath him. "Those won't work for this one," he says. "And no offense to your healing abilities, but the best thing to do is to let this run its course. Trust me." And those final two words now do contain a trace of irony, as if he knows full well that trusting him has always been, at best, a matter of deep contention. 

Linhardt nods in confirmation. "From what I can tell, he's right. I don't recognize the poison, but it is very potent. It's a wonder you're even still conscious, Claude. I wonder if..." Everyone can tell that Linhardt is about to suggest an experiment but miraculously, he holds his tongue. 

_Perhaps we'll manage to socialize him yet._

*

"Who did this?" 

She's managed to convince everyone else to get some sleep with promises to call if Claude's condition deteriorates. ("It _won't_ ," he had insisted to no one's heed, after which Edelgard swears the man honest-to-goodness pouted.) Linhardt and Lysithea had both agreed that Claude needed to be kept awake for at least three hours, and fed vulneraries at every half hour to maintain his body's strength and ability to self-neutralize the venom. They had also made him drink an antitoxin just in case, which he did with good grace and without pointing out again that it would do nothing.

(Lysithea had lingered the longest, giving Claude an angry "You better not be dead when I come check!" before marching out, Claude's fond "Good night to you too, fawnlet" floating after her.)

He looks at Edelgard with heavily-lidded eyes, half-glazed, reflecting only the dim light of the handful of lit candles. Despite his best efforts at keeping up the facade of insouciance, she knows pain when she sees it. But when he speaks, it comes out as a huff of laughter. "Are you taking advantage of my poison-addled state to pry answers from me, princess?"

And _that_ old nearly-forgotten moniker is a surprise. 

To them both apparently as his eyes widen and his mouth audibly clicks shut around the word, too late. His next attempt at laughter is weak and dry. "More poison-addled than I'd expected. Like being drunk without any of the fun."

Her stare lingers for a beat too long, then she says, "Maybe," in answer to his question, but takes a seat on a settee without pressing. "Care to share why you have such high tolerance for poison?"

"What, your parents never fed you small amounts of poison when you were growing up to build up immunity in the Adrestian Empire's heir apparent?" He manages to gather back enough scraps of easygoing humour that it drapes almost believably over his tone again.

"I was not always the heir apparent," she says, the images of lost siblings flashing on the back of her lids with every blink. She tries to blink less. She's surprised him with this revelation, she knows, from the way he stills completely on the divan. That makes two of them — again. Perhaps she is more tired than she'd thought. Well, it's not as though the information holds significance for anyone other than herself now.

"I did not know that," he says cautiously. 

"Few do and I hope that tally only goes up by one after tonight."

He draws a cross over his heart. "No one will hear it from me. I am very good at keeping secrets."

"That, I believe."

They sit in silence listening to the cicadas sing, seeking their mates in the darkness. It's not until Claude shivers that Edelgard remembers she's here to keep him awake and silence is not the best way to achieve that.

"Are you cold?" she asks, already gathering a soft woven blanket from another couch. 

"Phase two," he grins by way of reply, a fine tremor running through him as his body vibrates to generate heat. 

"Wait here," Edelgard orders as though he has much of a choice. There is a small ornate brazier tucked into the corner of the room that she retrieves and sets alight with a small push of magic. She brings it as close to him as she dares and he sighs involuntarily at the emanating warmth.

"When did you learn that trick, princess?"

Edelgard frowns — now he sounds drowsy. 

"When I was younger," she replies. She needs to keep him awake for at least another two hours. Then Lysithea will take over to determine if it is safe for him to sleep or if Linhardt needs to be summoned again. Lysithea functions as a reliable enough field medic, but the intricacies of white magic are better left to their resident bishop. "My elder brother taught me." The words feel sticky in her throat but he's watching her with luminous eyes, no longer sleepy, so she swallows and forges ahead. "He was very gifted in magic, fire in particular. Whereas magic has never been my strong suit, contrary to the traditions of Empire nobility."

"I'll bet you were contrary in more ways than that."

She arches an eyebrow at him, on steadier footing with this rhythm. "You can't bet on something after the results are already clear." She's rewarded with a crooked grin of acknowledgement and he gestures for her to continue, which she surprises herself by doing after another pensive beat of silence. 

"When I was young, very young, I was in fact not very fond of fire." She had been unnerved by its heat and movement. A great irony, considering the Crest that is slowly killing her. "My brother taught me the spell to help me overcome that fear, to show me that I could control it and use it for light and warmth. He was not terribly amused when I managed to singe his eyebrow off in the learning process. And I ruined more than a few of my sisters' handkerchiefs."

Rather than the amusement she'd expected to draw out, he is quiet. "All the things I never knew about you, Edelgard, being a baby sister is one of the least expected." Ah, of course, he has deduced that. ( _Careful, Lady Edelgard,_ in Hubert's voice.)

Yes, she had been one, hadn't she? But not for very long. A few short years of cherished memories followed by an inferno, burning away her status as a spoiled younger sibling, a loving older sister, a _child_ , to be replaced by screaming nightmares and the deep freeze of an ice age where she erected glacial walls around her to protect the burning core of her memories and ambitions. Only Hubert — ever faithful, ever present — had been by her side thereafter until she'd arrived at the Academy. 

As though sensing the tumbling arc of her thoughts, Claude shifts, a rustle of cotton, and quips in a lighter tone, "Why did I never see you use it in school?"

Because despite her chosen alias as the Flame Emperor, Edelgard's unease around fire had only grown in the aftermath of her Crest implantation. "You didn't see me do a lot of things at the Academy," she says instead. As soon as the words leave her mouth, Edelgard is frustrated at herself. She did not mean it in that way, but any allusion to her extracurricular activities at Garreg Mach is not particularly conducive to keeping a conversation alive.

Luckily, Claude is quite socially adept and does not kick at the wasps' nest hidden in that comment. "True enough," he agrees easily. "You're not so bad at keeping secrets yourself."

She can't quite find it in herself to laugh at that, but she acknowledges the attempt to salvage the conversation with a wry quirk of her mouth. 

She is not prepared for him to murmur, quietly, like a return offering, "You asked me earlier why I have such high tolerance to poisons." Edelgard gives him a sidelong glance. "It's true that it is a tradition here to feed small amounts of poison to royal children as they grow to build immunity." Seemingly against his conscious intent, his smile takes on a bitter curve. "It's just that some of the poisonings I was subject to were ... unscheduled or in larger doses than strictly recommended." 

Assassination attempts. Multiple assassination attempts. On a _child_. Edelgard schools her expression very carefully.

"And from there," he shrugs, the action looking like it takes an effort. "It was sink or swim. Luckily for me, I turned out to be a strong swimmer. After that, I took a professional and personal interest in poisons and, well, sometimes the only test subject is yourself, right? So don't worry, Your Majesty, I'll be fine. I doubt there's a poison in the known world that can kill me now."

"I wasn't worried," she says, voice very dry. "I merely do not wish for one of the royal princes to be found dead in my quarters. It could put a real strain on this new flowering friendship between Almyra and Fodlan." 

Claude lets out a bark of laughter, then grimaces. "Please share your sense of humour when enjoying it doesn't hurt me."

She bites back both a smile and a spark of concern. "I make no promises."

His eyes do their best to tell her how cruel he thinks that is, before they soften. "Thank you. This was the safest place I could think to go." _Hide_. And that tells her a lot about Claude's allies in this royal fortress, if he sought her out — someone who held an axe to his neck at their last parting — before than anyone else. 

"What would you have done if we weren't here?" _Surely, there is someone here you trust_. 

"Believe it or not, this hasn't happened for a while," he mumbles absently. He seems to be considering her question seriously. "I would have stood and fought, of course." 

Somehow, Claude manages to read whatever subtle shift in her demeanor accurately and gives her a weak smile. "My parents always raised me to fight my own battles. Though maybe I could have persuaded Sura to let me in."

With that admission, that he considers all but his older sister to be a potential threat or unsuitable haven, Edelgard feels that she really is taking advantage of his compromised state. A healthy, non-poisoned Claude would likely have never shared that with her. At the same time, the revelation causes a flicker of something like recognition in the pit of her stomach and she looks away. Her poker face is exceptional, but Claude's eyes are a little too astute for her liking. She is hiding and they both know it, but Edelgard does not care.

"It's time for your vulnerary." She takes the chance to fetch the potion, unstoppering the bottle and holding it out to him. Claude braces one arm on the divan and struggles to push himself into an upright enough position to take it without choking. Wordlessly, Edelgard sets the potion down and goes to help him, one arm braced against his back and wrapping around his shoulder. With her other hand, she picks the vulnerary back up and holds it to his lips, just as he wraps a hand around it, fingers cool against hers.

"Not that I'd say no to the Emperor of Adrestia hand-feeding me," he smirks, fingers tightening around the bottle and, by extension, hers, "but I do have enough strength left to hold the bottle."

She can only hope the dimness of the candles hides her flush as she lets go of the bottle immediately, drawing her hand back. Tempting as it is, she does not drop him entirely and continues to help support his weight as he tilts the bottle back, drinking the potion in one swallow, the flickering light highlighting the movement of his throat.

Clearing her throat, she tries to steer the conversation toward more neutral ground. "Classes restarted at Garreg Mach last year. Annette has roped Felix into teaching with her, and I am thinking of asking Byleth to take on a part-time professorship." As she says it, she's not actually sure if this _is_ neutral ground as there are inevitably names that will not be mentioned if she is to give a report on their former classmates. Certainly not in the present tense. 

Luckily, Claude appears to have had enough of reminiscing for now and settles back down into his pillows with a smile, softer around the edges than his usual grin, already looking less haggard as the vulnerary takes effect. "Teach would be great at it, obviously. Felix, I'm not so sure about."

"He may lead Golden Deer this year," Edelgard says, just to see his reaction. In truth, she does not know who the House professors are and it is frankly unlikely that between Hanneman, Annette, Manuela and Leonie, they would foist Felix upon a group of students (and them upon him).

It's worth it though for the split-second widening of Claude's eyes in something like genuine horror. "Why would you let that happen? I thought you'd intended to be an enlightened _benevolent_ ruler, Edelgard."

She cannot help the laughter that rises from her chest and out her lips at the dramatic delivery. "Lorenz is delivering their matriculation speech."

He groans emphatically. "You've always had it in for Golden Deer, haven't you? Admit it. This is your revenge for your schoolgirl envy of our superior artistic abilities —" 

"We had Bernadetta and Dorothea," she points out placidly.

"— earth-shattering magical prowess," he continues, ignoring her.

"Lysithea joined us by Wyvern Moon."

"— literal ability to speak with animals —" alright, she has to give him that one, which he knows as he smirks "— and, of course, unparalleled tactical genius."

"You forgot 'modesty'," she says.

"No House with Lorenz Hellman Gloucester in it can claim modesty with a straight face. Truly, it's beyond even me."

"He has proven a capable heir to House Gloucester," Edelgard says, pivoting to a more sober tone upon hearing the faint undercurrent of nostalgic affection in Claude's voice. She does not think he meant for her to hear it, but, well, poison-addled and all that. She had feared the Gloucester heir would fight her tooth and nail in her reform efforts given his attachment to the nobility structure, but Lorenz had, against expectations, heard her out seriously and informed her that it was his duty as a noble to support his Emperor's plans for the betterment and strengthening of the nation. And though they do not see eye to eye on many things, he has been true to his word and there are two pilot programs for grain distribution and collective farming on Gloucester lands. "And my Prime Minister would give an arm for a stud from the Gloucester stables."

"Lorenz did always have a thing for his horses. So, you've been studying."

"Hm?" Mystified by the non-sequitur, she follows his gaze to where the game board she'd set up earlier sits. "Ah. Since Linhardt completed his inventory in the vaults, Lysithea has told me they no longer require my assistance."

"Ouch, kicked out, huh?"

She rolls her eyes at him and does not dignify that with a response. In truth, Edelgard did feel like she had been dismissed, but since she would have been no help in analyzing the texts, she had accepted it with grace. Not that she wants to give Claude the satisfaction of admitting any of that. "The librarians were kind enough to help me find a book on the history and well-known strategies so I have been occupying myself with that."

"You know, you don't have to learn everything from books. Experience is the greatest teacher, as they say."

"I remember your dorm room, Claude, so I hardly think you're one to lecture me on reading too much."

His teeth flash white in the dark. "You remember my room? I don't recall ever inviting you in, princess."

Fully recognizing that he is baiting her, Edelgard nevertheless finds herself fighting an entirely unwarranted blush. "Professor Manuela sent me to find you once."

"And instead of knocking, you just charged in?"

"I _did_ knock." And then she had charged in, when there had been no response.

"And then you barged in?"

Gritting her teeth, she reminds herself that she had been the one to bring up his dorm room so she has no one to blame but herself for the direction this conversation has taken. "Flayn had just been kidnapped," she says. She'd been worried (and furious) at the thought of her uncle's underlings circumventing her instructions ( _again_ ) and making unforeseen moves toward their own sinister goals. 

"Aw, were you worried about me? Consider me retroactively _very_ honoured." Even through the exhaustion, Claude manages to sound delightedly amused. 

"I'll do no such thing," she tells him archly. 

Claude smirks as though telling her she can do nothing to stop him from being allegedly retroactively honoured. "So, did any of the strategies catch your eye?"

Blinking at the backtracking of topics, Edelgard considers the question. Then, she gets up to fetch the board, scooping the little pieces back into the drawer and carrying it over to her seat. This is far preferable to dredging up old memories. She should have thought of it sooner.

*

Five more vulneraries later, Lysithea arrives, rubbing the sleep from her eyes, to perform a reinforcing Heal and pronounce that apart from exhaustion, minor dehydration, and some lingering toxins that will likely manifest as an upset stomach, Claude has miraculously managed to safely process the poison and everyone can get some sleep.

Edelgard makes to clean up their half-finished game when Claude says, "We can finish this round. Don't wanna let the trap I've been setting for six turns go to waste."

The look he gives her is so innocent butter wouldn't melt in his mouth, which only makes her eyes narrow on the board. 

Sensing that her medical advice is about to be ignored, Lysithea stifles a yawn and waves as she shuffles out with a sleepy-stern, "You need to get some sleep tonight, Claude."

He does in fact have a trap laid for her, but whether it had been six turns or more or less in the making, Edelgard still cannot tell as she blows out the candles, keeping the brazier lit, and retreats to her own bed for as much as sleep as she can get, feeling his eyes on her back until she is beyond the doorway and out of sight.

When she rises at dawn from an at-best fitful sleep, she finds him sitting upright (a small release of tension in her shoulders at the sight), cross-legged, eyes closed in meditation. The brazier has gone cold overnight but he is no longer shivering so she does not bother to relight it. With the early morning sun haloing around him, smudging the outline of his form, Edelgard, for the first time, does not feel a guarded wariness in his presence.

(That all changes when he comes out of the meditation a half hour later and immediately turns a cat-like smile on her with an entirely too-smug, "Good morning, princess.")

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was one of the scenes inspiring this story so I'm glad I finally got to write and share it!


	6. Chapter 6

Meditation can be a surprising experience. Those who do not practice it tend to think of it as monotonously peaceful, the mind going empty of thoughts. In truth, each meditation is different, the mind is never truly empty. 

As he settles into his customary dawn meditation after surviving an assassination attempt the night before, Claude's mind drifts a specific day from his childhood. It was some weeks after his fifth birthday, at which he had been gifted a child's shortbow by his father. He'd started archery lessons nine moons prior. 

(The birthday after that, he would be tied to a horse for the first time.) 

It was a clear sunny afternoon, typical for the early fall, and he had slipped away from his attendants, laughing silently with a childish pride at his own cleverness as he ducked behind an ornamental boulder and squirmed away through the rosebushes, thorns scratching at his tunic and exposed skin. 

Looking back as he'd gotten older, he had understood that it was not so much that he'd been a prodigious escape artist as it was that the attendants assigned to him by the palace administrators were simply uninterested (at best) in him. Although he was a royal prince born of the woman named the Queen of Almyra, he was still _other_ , with foreign blood diluting and weakening the strength and nobility of the Almyran half of his lineage. Blood of a people with whom Almyra had not only been at war for centuries, but, even worse, of a people who could not tame an ungelded stallion, who summoned dark mists or lighting from a clear day or any other manner of unholy sorcery on the battlefield as often as they used good, clean steel, who were rumoured to commit unspeakable acts with beasts in exchange for such sorcery ... cowards and witches and worse still names were whispered.

No one dared to air such thoughts in the vicinity of the King, of course, but one unknown maiden elevated in an unprecedented manner to royalty (no matter how beautiful, no matter how headstrong, now matter how masterful with a sword — though the latter trait did help to soften a few hearts and encourage certain tongue-waggers to think twice) could hardly compare with generations of deeply-held convictions — convictions that previous kings had been content to let fester, when they did not propagate them outright. 

So if the half-blood princeling with the unsettling eyes happened to stumble or fall or collect bruises and scrapes disproportionately more often than the other royal children — well, who can say what weakness of body or mind sprang from such polluted blood? (Not that anyone could have pointed to anything resembling _weakness_ in the woman who was the source of that pollution. Certainly not since she publicly sparred General Nader to an impasse less than three months after giving birth, thus securing the General's tutelage for her son once he was old enough to learn battle and warcraft. But when have trifles such as reason or facts ever dampened enthusiasm for prejudices?)

On the day in question, after congratulating himself on the successful hoodwinking of his attendants (who dutifully reported him as missing and retired to search, rather leisurely, in the shaded inner courtyards), Claude, his new bow in hand, scampered through the carefully cultivated gardens of the royal harems to the wilder foliage of one of the less-traversed quarters. It had once been the private residences of a prince of his grandfather's generation — someone who would have been Claude's great-uncle had that someone survived long enough — but had been disused for decades. Amir and Farokh had whispered to meet them here at the feast two nights ago celebrating General Nader's victorious battle, with a promise to show him some new archery tricks.

Being more than double Claude's age, Amir was bigger, taller, stronger, faster — everything an older brother should be. He'd also had years of training with the generals in the city, had even ridden with a battalion once to quell a minor rebellion in the south. Claude had been in awe of him. Farokh was smaller than Amir, closer to Claude's age, but still older, with a sleek smile and the quick mind of a poet. His favoured weapon (insofar as an eight year old could have a favoured weapon) was the bow. He was already good enough to have been granted the immense privilege of lighting the ceremonial fires at the coming equinox celebrations with arrows bearing flames from the Eternal Pyre. Claude had wanted nothing more than to emulate that success.

That cloudless day in the early fall of his fifth year had been the day he started to suspect that perhaps his brothers were not quite so taken with him. Claude remembers all this from a distance, allowing the memory to come in and out of focus as it pleases, himself a passive observer. The key to meditation is learning to relinquish control without losing control.

The paint on the inner walls of the residence were more faded than they should have been allowed to become, though the outer walls remained exquisitely maintained. Claude crept though the small thicket of overgrown grasses and shrubs, one or two stubborn flowers still blooming here and there. There were voices in the courtyard.

"Amir? Farokh?"

A third voice. Had Reza been invited too? He didn't even have his own bow yet! Was he here to watch? A proud grin slipped onto Claude's face as he imagined his youngest brother (by only a few months but that was enough when he was five and Reza still only four) looking at Claude and Claude's brand new bow with glowing eyes. Maybe, if he asked nicely, Claude would let him hold it and practice a few shots. He had been as excited to be an older brother as he was to have older brothers, Claude remembers from his perch on a divan in the lounge of Emperor of Adrestia's guest residences.

There had been a low giggling, bitten off abruptly as he emerged, hair sticking up and clothes dirty and scratched by the scramble through the undergrowth. 

Sure enough, all three of his brothers turned to him, eyes gleaming. 

"Where are your bows?" he asked the taller two. 

Ignoring the question, Farokh waved him over. "We found a good practice target." He pointed at an irregularly round object stuck to the side of a squat date palm by the far wall, textured like tree bark and tapering at the bottom.

The regular palace quarters were kept meticulously free of such nests, so Claude had not known what he was looking at. Squinting against the glare of the sun, he failed to see any of the small hovering blobs that would have been hidden in the shade of the fronds.

"Yeah, need to see what you're capable of before we can teach you anything," Amir continued, arms crossed. "It's a test. After you hit it, we'll show you something cool."

With the clarity of hindsight and twenty more years of interactions, he has an impression of the air being charged with unusual glee but he also knows that five-year-old-Claude had only experienced it as the clandestine excitement of an unsupervised playtime. 

Claude's not actually sure what they planned to do if he had been unable to hit the hive, but as it was, he had what Teach would have called a budding talent for the bow and managed to strike the nest, knocking it from the tree, on his third try. 

Things happened quickly after that. Claude turned in triumph — someone ( _Farokh_ ) giggle-shouted "Run!" — someone else ( _Amir_ ) bumped into him, knocking him to the ground— In his determination to protect his bow, Claude did not break his fall and hit the ground hard on his side, both hands clutching the smooth wood. He felt a sharp kick to his shins and watched, helpless and confused, as his brothers scrambled out of the courtyard, laughing breathlessly. Pushing himself to his knees, Claude winced at the sharp throbbing pain in his shoulder. At the same time, the enraged buzz of a hundred hornets who have just had their nest attacked reached him a heartbeat before their stingers did.

He takes a deeper breath as the memory turns to pain. _In. Out._

That had been the one that had come the closest to actually killing him. Ironically, that was also likely the one time there had been no true murderous intent (though there had certainly been a reckless disregard for his survival). His desperate flight had slowed to a limp and a crawl. It was only after he collapsed that the hornets began to lose interest and eventually retreated back to rebuild their nest. He'd been very lucky an apprentice to the royal physicians had found him, covered in angry red bumps, face swollen almost beyond recognition, throat gasping for air.

He hadn't been able to open his eyes for three days after, his body an excruciating, unrelenting sea of pain, sleep haunted by phantom buzzing and stings. He'd trampled his own bow in his desperate attempts to get away from the aggressively affronted swarm. 

His attendants that day were blinded for their carelessness, their tongues cut off, banished to fend for themselves on the streets of Ishfa. But for all that Tiana was Queen, she had no family, no clan to support her and no one dared to challenge the mother of the eldest royal prince or the woman whose cousin was the Grand Vizier. So the punishments had ended there.

The royal physicians said he'd been lucky to survive, lucky that he had not been fatally allergic to the sting venom. To not have lost an eye or a hand. Lying in the forcible dark of eyes too swollen to open, sweating through the intensity of the pain, lucky was not a word Claude would have used to describe how he felt.

Taking a breath, Claude draws his attention back to the present. His body aches in sore twinges, like it would after a full day of hard flying, and he feels exhausted but the memory of heartstopping pain reminds him that he's survived worse.

He hears when Edelgard steps into the room from the inner chambers, silk-slippered feet padding softly on the rugs. She's still there when he rouses, slowly, from his meditation and Claude shoves away all memories of a confused, hurt, frightened child as he opens his eyes.

The Emperor is seated at a side table, clad in a long high-collared robe, dark green stitched with silver bird motifs. This cannot be the first time he's seen her dressed in something other than red but Claude is hard-pressed to specifically recall another instance. She has a leather-bound book in one white silk-gloved hand, the other resting lightly at the top corner of one page, preparing to flip. Her hair is longer than the last time he's seen her, loose from any bindings and framing her face in soft silver wisps. Even at the Academy, she'd always had it pulled back sternly from her face.

He stirs purposefully, alerting her. "Good morning, princess," he says with a smile.

*

The minute Claude returns from the Adrestian delegation's guest quarters (scaling the courtyard walls and nearly smashing his face in when his body protests that it is not yet ready for such ambitious maneuvers), an attendant hurries over with a message from his mother, summoning him to breakfast with her. Groaning, Claude makes his way into his bedchamber to change as quickly as possible and splash his face with tepid water. Even if, judging by the timing of this invitation, his mother may already be aware of the events of the previous night (where his mother is concerned, there are very rarely coincidences), he can't exactly show up to breakfast with a torn and bloody tunic, even poorly-hidden as it is under his kaftan.

His attendants know by now not to ask questions about his absence overnight or the stains on his shirt. They will burn it while he is out. Claude keeps a very small staff and has done so for years. He does not mind a slightly less ordered courtyard and, indeed, prefers to make his own tea and coffee (out of an abundance of justifiable paranoia). He does mind having someone else's eyes and ears within his private quarters. 

As he dresses himself in fresh clothes in front of the mirror, he is well-aware that he is hardly the picture of good health. For one thing, there are deep smudges under each eye like someone dipped a thumb in ink and pressed it into his skin. 

Edelgard had been alarmed, he could tell, but with their history being scant more than former acquaintances and erstwhile adversaries, it would hardly have been appropriate for her to offer that he remained to rest. And even if she had, he could not have accepted. So she had only slid a sealed vulnerary across the table with a cup of water and said nothing as he stood up to leave with a chipper, "Time to go. I may have brought some unpleasantness to your door but I promised Dorothea I wouldn't cause a scandal. Thank you for your hospitality, and the tea, Your Majesty."

She looked at him, the look in her eyes and the drawn line of her lips seeming to say, _Don't die on your way back. That would be a letdown after the trouble and risk of harbouring you._ He grinned in response and her eyes flickered away. In the daylight, her posture had regained much of the stiff formality and armored poise that the moonlight (and possibly his poison-fuzzy vision) had temporarily softened the night before. A shame. 

He runs a hand through his hair one last time, trying as much as possible not to betray that he'd spent half the night curled up and sweating on a divan. He's no longer in pain — Linhardt's command of faith magic is undeniably first-rate — but ideally he would have spent the rest of the morning sleeping rather than answering summons. Alas. The Queen awaits.

"I hear you did not spend the night in your own bed," she says as he steps onto the portico of her parlour, cutting straight to the chase. 

"Good morning to you too, Mother." He leans down to give her a kiss on the cheek, then settles into the cushion opposite her. "I didn't spend it in anyone else's," he adds cheekily, if absently, as he eyes the table laden with honey, sliced cucumbers, yogurt, chopped nuts, thick fluffy flatbreads and an assortment of crumbly cheeses and jams. He is abruptly starving. Vulneraries are fast-acting but nothing can beat the sustenance of an actual meal. Maybe breakfast is the right idea after all. 

She ignores his comment. "Someone is getting impatient." 

The click of her tongue is shaded with disapproval, which is rich, coming from her, Claude thinks, stuffing a piece of bread topped with feta, honey and a tangy berry jam into his mouth. Tiana von Riegan did not acquire the moniker of demon queen by being known for her patience.

"It was bound to happen. As soon as Edelgard accepted the invitation. Even before that." He gives her a wry look over his cup of pomegranate juice. "I disappointed quite a few people by coming back from my adventures in Fodlan in one piece."

Her eyes narrow at that, the first hint of her legendary temper. "Poison?"

There is little chance she does not already know. "I'm almost impressed they managed to distill it without tipping off my sources."

"They are motivated." Her soft words fall like a weighted sack. 

"Home sweet home, right?" Despite the lingering sweetness from the honey and jam, there is bitterness on his tongue.

She watches him eat in silence for a moment, sipping her tea. "You ran to the emperor. I thought you weren't friends."

He makes a face at the word 'ran'. "We're not. It was a strategic retreat. I didn't think they'd be stupid enough to chase me into a visiting dignitary's — a sovereign's! — guest quarters." He downs a glass of water before rubbing at his sideburns in thought. "This wasn't approved by the old man. Risk turning a failed attempt into a diplomatic incident? His people would have never made that mistake."

He hears the tonal shift in her next words. "Be careful, Khalid."

A rare moment of complete gravity. He can count the number of times they've had those since he was a child and have fingers left over. One time had been after the incident from his meditative reminiscences this morning. "I will. I always am. Don't worry, Mother, despite your unsolicited gift, I have things under control."

"You say that like her presence is not a boon."

"Her presence," he says, exhaling through his nose, "is a new variable and not one that is easily calculated. You don't know her like I do and I barely know her at all. Edelgard can hardly be considered a straightforward boon."

"She let you stay."

Going there had been a risk, he admits, but a fairly low one as he is fairly sure Edelgard does not actually wish to see him dead. He likes having his suspicions confirmed. "I’m going to have to find a way to balance our ledgers before they get too skewed.”

"Hmm." There are layers to that hum that Claude cannot summon the energy to excavate right now. Belly full, fatigue once again tugs at his senses. 

"Khalid! I didn't expect to see you here. Are you joining us?"

It's a sign of how tired he is that he nearly jumps at the new voice. Sura is striding up the portico stairs, two steps at a time. She greets Tiana formally, fingertips to her forehead. "Your Majesty."

"Sura." Tiana rises to greet her and he notices for the first time that she is wearing loose pants, cinched at each ankle. "No, I'm afraid Khalid had a late night so he will not be accompanying us." Turning to Claude, she explains, "Sura has agreed to join me for a round of sparring."

The last time the queen and the eldest princess had sparred, the training yards had needed to be partially rebuilt and the blacksmiths had been busy for weeks replenishing the supply of training weapons. Claude almost feels bad for the tradesmen. 

"I have been looking forward to it."

"We'll see whether those desert pirates have been a good whetstone for your blades."

There is no way Claude is getting dragged along for this. He needs sleep, not to get jostled around in the inevitable crowd of enthusiastic shouting soldiers that will gather for one of these spectacles. He shares one last look with his mother and beats a hasty strategic retreat. 

*

Edelgard is reading in the gardens that same afternoon when Chief Steward Firuz is announced, Dorothea showing him in with a bright, "We have a visitor, Your Majesty!" 

"Your Majesty. My apologies for the interruption." He bows deeply, making the formal court gesture of respect. His voice is slightly papery with age, but smooth and melodious. A voice cultivated for politics, accustomed to being listened to and obeyed without any raised volume. Edelgard's first meeting with him had been at the welcome banquet. His position, from what she gathered, is quite similar to Hubert's insofar as he is officially responsible for overseeing the administrative and logistical affairs of the palace, but in reality, his domain likely encompasses a far wider scope of authority and responsibility. Very few are able to access the king without going through him first — that gatekeeping function alone makes him one of the most powerful figures in the court.

"No apologies needed, Chief Steward," Edelgard responds, turning the documents she is reading facedown — a force of habit rather than the existence of any confidential information on said documents. "Please sit."

"Ah, no, thank you," he demurs. "I shall not intrude on you for long. It has come to my understanding that Your Majesty may have had a ... disturbance last night and I wished to confirm all is well."

His news sources are very good. But if he is looking to get a careless reaction from Edelgard... well, Edelgard rather fears that she will have to disappoint.

"A disturbance," she echoes mildly. "I retired early last night. Was there anything out of the ordinary last night, Dorothea?"

Dorothea adopts her customary thinking pose, head tilted just so to show off her best side, right hand tucked under her chin pensively. An opera star may leave the stage, but the stage never leaves an opera star. "There were some insects buzzing around in the courtyard so I went out to go shoo them away. It's hardly worth a mention." She turns large guileless eyes on the tall man. "Did you have something else in mind, Chief Steward Firuz?"

His smile is thin, tight-lipped. "I am relieved to hear that you were not unduly troubled. The climate here does not lend itself to many biting insects but there are occasionally hornets attracted by the flowers. I shall send a gardener by later to ensure that none have made a home among your gardens." 

Edelgard very much doubts the gardener that is sent will be primarily looking for traces of hornet activity.

She inclines her head. "Your consideration is appreciated." Let his gardener come inspect the grounds. The only sign of their intruders last night, both the one that stayed and the ones that were encouraged to leave expeditiously, are a few areas of dented grasses, easily attributable to their own comings and goings.

That Firuz is so interested in, and yet so circumspect about, the happenings in her courtyard last night is more telling than perhaps he himself realizes. Perhaps he sees only a young inexperienced woman rather than a tested wartime Emperor. No matter. Edelgard is not interested in becoming entangled (any more than she already may be) in the internal machinations of the Almyran court. Unless he presents a threat to her or her friends, she has no need to relieve him of any such mistaken impressions. It can be helpful to be underestimated sometimes. 

After he takes his leave, Dorothea steps closer as though reading Edelgard's thoughts. "Something smells off here." Her murmur is barely audible, head dipped closer to Edelgard's.

"Agree. I have long grown tired of the feeling of being kept in the dark."

"I'll poke around discretely. Palaces are full of gossip."

Despite the somberness of the moment, Edelgard's gaze lightens in amusement for a second. "Even mine?"

Dorothea laughs. "Especially yours, Edie. You should have heard some of the ones about Hubert and Ferdie!"

She's not actually sure if she wants to... there had been a rather painful stretch of months where she'd considered fabricating some flimsy excuse of a mission just so she could order them both out of the capital for a time, both to resolve their own ... issues and so that said issues would stop distracting all of her other staff and officers. Shaking her head, she returns to the matter at hand. "I only hope Linhardt and Lysithea's search proves fruitful sooner rather than later. There is something in the wind I do not like. The sooner we can leave, the better. In the meantime, I think it's time for me to stop stalling on some of these invitations. "

*

Two bodies turn up in the slums outside Ishfa the next day. It does not garner much notice given the scale of the capital and the many unidentified bodies that naturally accumulate in such large cities. People die in the night all the time, if they are foolish or desperate or unfortunate enough to be walking the streets after the final bells. The two bodies are consigned to be buried in a mass grave with the vagabonds, whores, drunks who similarly met their ends, violent or otherwise, without families to claim and mourn them.

There are two unusual aspects to these bodies that might have been noteworthy, if anyone were around to take note: the first, they are covered in thousands of raised red dots, like an affliction of the pox or a nasty encounter with a large swarm of angry biting insects. The gravediggers tie their tattered scarves more firmly around their faces, making a sign against evil and the plague, but however ugly and uncomfortable the bumps look, it is clear that they are not the immediate cause of the two men's deaths. Both dead men have had their throats slit from ear to ear and their faces are slashed beyond all recognition. The violence of the act is the second potentially noteworthy aspect, but the gravediggers are not paid enough to notice these things and so they go unremarked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Took a bit longer with this one but it's out! Not gonna lie, I got stuck for a whole day on whether Claude's facial hair is properly described as a beard or sideburns since his chin is clean-shaven. Wikipedia led me to settle on sideburns but I'm still torn. 
> 
> Does anyone have strong thoughts on this lol please let me know!
> 
> Thank you, as always, to everyone staying with me on this journey :)


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Dorothea is MVP and everyone loves Bernadetta (obviously).

Over the next few days, Edelgard's courtyard is a flurry of activity as she officially hosts a series of guests, from the Grand Vizier who arrives in an extravagant litter borne by six sweating attendants to Princess-General Sura who comes by herself dressed in light military garb and spends an afternoon beating Edelgard at the board game Claude's taught her. She leaves with Edelgard's agreement to meet her on the training grounds in a week's time. Caspar had come back with news of the apparently spectacular (and spectacularly destructive) sparring match between Tiana and Sura, giddy with admiration and Edelgard's curiosity is piqued. Everything she learns implies that Sura, despite being the eldest royal child, has little interest in contending for the throne, having maintained a careful distance from the deadlocked royal politics and preferring to spend her time primarily away from the capital with her troops while the princes circle each other like starving wolves. Provided that is true, it may well be worthwhile to forge closer ties with a neutral party who nevertheless commands great respect and power in her own right. And Edelgard can only stay still for so long before her muscles begin to feel heavy and slow from disuse. 

She accepts invitations from the royal harem to take tea and delicacies, with Bernadetta and Dorothea in tow, and gets the distinct feeling that they are perhaps surprised to find her courteous, well-spoken and, sometimes, even charming. Dorothea is a talented conversationalist but the true darling turns out to be Bernadetta, whose precise and elaborate needlework makes her an instant (albeit somewhat alarmed) hit. The women win Bernadetta over by teaching her the unique embroidery techniques and stitching of each region of Almyra. Edelgard fully expects a round of silk scarves and shawls gifted to everyone upon their return to Enbarr with exquisitely-rendered Almyran designs. Edelgard considers it a great privilege to have witnessed the blossoming of the jumpy, timid girl she'd known into a young woman who (while still jumpy and exhausted after prolonged social interactions) has vibrant hobbies and is now remarkably curious about the world outside her room. ("I never realized before but it makes the time spent inside that much better," Bernadetta had told her once, in the months after the war.)

In the evenings, Edelgard drafts encoded letters to Hubert with this new information, knowing it will make her old friend happier than any other gift she could possibly bring him from this excursion about which he had remained so skeptical.

Linhardt and Lysithea take to spending even more time at the library, sometimes skipping dinner entirely and returning late at night. After a night when Lysithea fails to return at all, Edelgard takes her aside and gently, but firmly, reminds her that she must take care of her body. "I understand the urgency, but you will be of no help if you collapse. And I would personally be quite distressed." Lysithea is unhappy but sheepish — it's been a few years since she'd so flagrantly disregarded her body's needs. "I need you, all of you, at your best while we are here." She agrees to be more careful.

Edelgard checks in on her chief researcher as well but, seeing him sleeping over a pile of notes, she lets him be. No one has troubled them about the unusual hours they keep in the library, so she suspects Claude must be running interference with any complaints or concerns. She makes a note to thank him the next time she gets a chance. (So far, he appears to be taking his role of facilitating their cataloguing efforts in all seriousness and, regardless of anything else, Edelgard is thankful for that.)

She responds in the affirmative to one of Farokh's daily invitations, having stalled right to the threshold of discourtesy, this time to tour the royal greenhouse. It takes far less effort than expected to convince Bernadetta to join her. When they arrive, he is perfectly solicitous and if he is disappointed to have a third person present, he is disciplined enough to not let it show.

"Lady Edelgard. Lady Bernadetta."

"Prince Farokh."

"Y-your Highness."

"Welcome to the royal greenhouse." he says with a flash of teeth.

"Thank you for the invitation. I must admit we have been curious about the greenhouse."

"Ah! You should have mentioned that to me sooner. My royal father has bestowed upon me the great honor of overseeing the royal greenhouse — I have a particular fondness for flowers, you see — and I would have certainly arranged this tour sooner. It gives me great to pleasure to know that we share this appreciation."

"Are there, um, carnivorous ones?"

He looks momentarily baffled at Bernadetta's question. "I beg your pardon, my lady?"

There is the slightest edge to Edelgard's serene smile. "Bernadetta's interest in flora runs a little more esoteric than run-of-the-mill roses and carnations."

"An extraordinary fancy for two extraordinary women," he proclaims. "I shall summon one of our senior royal gardeners. His knowledge of the plants within these walls is encyclopedic. If there are any carnivorous plants within our palace walls, he will surely know where, Lady Bernadetta."

"Flesh-eating plants, eh?" the stocky older man who shows up minutes later says, rubbing his bearded cheek in thought. "We do indeed have a few species of those here."

"Really? Please show me!"

Edelgard smiles as Bernadetta trails away happily after the gardener, disappearing into the heavy greenery. She starts to follow but is halted by a light touch at her elbow that retreats as soon as she glances pointedly down and then over at Farokh. He does not look abashed, however.

"Lady Edelgard, I thought you might be interested in our more cultivated offerings."

She considers telling him that she'd very much like to see the plants Bernadetta is so excited about, but restrains that impulse, reminding herself that she is still a guest in this palace. A royal guest, but a guest nonetheless. "Lead the way."

They stroll down a different one of the many paths, passing low-lying prickly shrubs and large fragrant blooms Edelgard does not know the name of. It is quite an impressive feat of cultivation in the climate. For a while, Farokh simply points out certain specific species of which he is particularly fond or feature prominently in Almyran traditions. It is more peaceful than expected and Edelgard asks a few questions along the way, tucking away snippets of knowledge about irrigation techniques to mention to her own gardeners. 

They are among the exquisitely maintained iris beds when Farokh turns to her and says, "You and I are quite similar, Lady Edelgard."

"Is that so?"

"You are an intelligent and ambitious woman. My elder sister admires the stories of your battle prowess and she does not admire very many people in that regard. These are all highly honoured traits."

"I am also not terribly susceptible to flattery," she says wryly, glancing at him from where she is admiring a cluster of deep violet blooms with a painter's brushstroke of milk-white at its center. If they are to proceed with any semblance of intelligent conversation, she would rather nip the overt fawning in the bud. (A flower pun — she's torn between mild horror and amusement at herself.) It's bad enough when Claude does it but at least he respects the subject of his flirtations enough that he lets his tone suggest a hint of laughter, inviting them to share a joke, rather than expecting them to be necessarily swayed by his words. "So there is no need to compliment me so excessively."

Farokh's smile changes almost imperceptibly — a loss of some stiffness while, simultaneously, gaining a hidden edge. Ah, she thinks, this must be closer to the truth. 

"I assure you it is not at all excessive," he says. "But I confess I wished to speak to you on the specific matter of your visit. You were invited here to forge new ties between nations."

She turns to look at him properly. "Indeed. It would be beneficial to both nations to have a quiet border." The symbolism of this conversation here, among the most carefully cultivated flowers in the greenhouse, from whose ranks the King's crown garland was exclusively selected and woven, does not escape her, though she privately thinks it might be a bit heavy-handed. 

"There are stronger ties than a signed accord and a handshake. Other arrangements that could be to our mutual benefit."

The overture is not subtle and has come rather sooner than she'd expected. The sense of urgency she's caught glimpses of since the welcome banquet surfaces again. Before she can formulate a response that is more diplomatic than a flat, "No", they are interrupted by a loud voice.

"Brother! Your Majesty. What a coincidence."

She nods in greeting, not believing for a second in any such coincidences. "Prince Amir. Prince Reza." Prince Amir, the oldest prince, is a handsome, imposing man, muscular and barrel-chested, with a generous mustache. He carries a scimitar that does not look strictly ceremonial at his hip — a sign of favour (and power) in the strictly controlled environment of the palace.

Reza, the fourth prince, is slighter and clean-shaven. He is not visibly armed, though the many folds of his robes can certainly conceal any number of weapons, as the weight of Edelgard's favourite dagger pressing against her forearm clearly evidences. He does not look particularly pleased to see them, eyes flat as he offers a perfunctory smile, little more than a curl upwards of his lips. 

Farokh's lips thin minutely at the advent of his brothers before quickly smoothing out. "Amir, Reza. What an unexpected surprise. I had not thought you cared much for the intricacies of gardening, Amir."

Amir's smile bares even white teeth, wide enough to show his canines. "I care to check that the gardeners are doing a good job and not allowing pests or weeds to invade our sacred flowers. They can be very insidious unless kept strictly in check."

The words carry the distinct impression of poisoned blades swathed in the lightest veil of silken courtesy.

Farokh's demeanour stiffens ever so slightly, but his expression remains unchanged. "I can assure you that the greenhouses are exceptionally well-maintained."

"We're also concerned about rats," Reza says, the flicker of his eyes to Edelgard and away again almost faster than one of Shamir's thrown daggers. Edelgard lets him believe she does not notice it. Her instinctive shudder at the mention of rats is violently suppressed and she only hopes she's managed it completely enough that he sees nothing more than cool distaste, at most.

At the mention of rats, Farokh looks affronted. "That is uncalled for, Reza. You know as well as I do that there are no rats within the greenhouses. That's what the snakes are here for."

"Speaking of pests," she says lightly (secretly proud of the way her voice comes out evenly despite the instinctive disgust at the mention of rodents), and all three men turn to her, "the Chief Steward has warned me there may be a risk of hornets."

Something shifts at the mention of hornets and though they only continue to look at her, it now reminds her of the manner people do when they are very pointedly _not_ looking at each other. Reza does not manage to fully contain the narrowing of his eyes.

Farokh, unsurprisingly to Edelgard now, is the first to react. "Ah," he says, the picture of solicitous concern, "that is occasionally a concern in the lesser-used areas of the palace, where the gardens are tended to less often. May I ask how the Chief Steward came to deliver this warning to you? I do hope that you have not been troubled by any such problems."

For the second time that day, her response is interrupted by the arrival of a royal son as a familiar voice says, "I'll also ask the gardeners to prepare a sample of seedlings for you to take back with you, along with care instructions." Claude rounds the corner with Bernadetta following behind, cradling a small potted plant in her hands, humming happily. Seeing their cluster, he makes a small noise of surprise that fools no one.

"Such a merry gathering! I'm hurt that I was not invited. If you had wanted to see the greenhouses, you need only have asked me, Edelgard." 

She nods at him in greeting, trying not to scrutinize his appearance. There are still signs of wear, but overall he appears only mildly tired rather than someone who survived a lethal poisoning recently. "Prince Farokh was gracious enough to extend us an invitation. We were just discussing pest control. Dorothea told me there was a mild disruption in the courtyard a few days ago and the Chief Steward suspected hornets, though no hives were found by the gardener he very thoughtfully sent to inspect our gardens."

That gets a micro-reaction from Reza, whose jaw tightens, while Claude gives her the most exaggerated wide-eye stare.

"I'm glad Firuz jumped on that so quickly. Hornet stings are no walk in the park, let me tell you. I would be personally mortified if any of our honoured guests suffered from a hornet attack while here. Those things have been known to kill unsuspecting people. Isn't that right, brothers dearest?" 

Edelgard's gaze is focused between Amir and Reza so she does not miss the way a muscle jumps in the former's cheek and the latter outright scowl at the endearment. There is clearly a shared context here that she is missing.

"Indeed. That would be most unacceptable." Farokh. Smooth and steady. Face betraying no signs of displeasure or recognition. 

"Very distressing to hear your sleep was disrupted, but Firuz is very thorough."

She had not mentioned the time of the disruption and she does not have to look at Claude to know that he's picked up on that fact as well. "I was not disrupted. Dorothea is fully capable of dispatching of a few unwanted guests without rousing me. Though I did notice a stray cat the next morning scaling my walls." She continues to not look at Claude when she says that, though she fancies that she can feel amusement radiating from his direction.

"A stray?" Farokh looks puzzled. "Could you be mistaken, Lady Edelgard? There are no stray animals within palace grounds."

"Perhaps a lost cat," Claude suggests, hands clasped behind his head with a grin. "Taking shelter temporarily until the darkness of night lifts and it can go home again."

Everyone excluding Edelgard and Bernadetta looks at Claude with suspicion. The women share a quick look and Bernadetta ducks her head to pet her new plant to hide a grin. Edelgard has no such convenient prop so she has to bite back her half-amused, half-exasperated reaction and act as though she is seriously considering Claude's suggestion. 

"How is your inspection going, Your Majesty?" Amir asks after a beat, turning to Edelgard, all but dismissing his middle brothers with his body language. "If there is anything you lack, please feel free to let me know." He is baldly implying Claude, who Darius had told her he personally tasked with this very responsibility, may not be doing his job well.

She does not look at Claude, who remains silent, as she smiles politely. "My researchers tell me they have found the royal archivists most accommodating," she replies, then does angle her body to implicitly bring the others back into the loose conversational circle. "Prince Khalid has been very helpful at facilitating their needs."

Amir spares Claude a cursory glance then shuts him out of his attention again. "Of course, but in the event I can be of any assistance in making the process more efficient, I am at your service."

Edelgard says, "Thank you" at the same time Claude says, "That makes it sound like you're impatient for her to leave, brother. And here I had planned to keep her until I'd had a chance to show them the full beauty of our beloved capital."

Amir finally shifts to look his brother in the eye, but it is Reza who speaks: "Unlike you, Khalid, Amir understands that the Empress has a nation to run and cannot shirk that duty for a sightseeing trip."

If there's one thing Edelgard dislikes (and there are many, but for the sake of argument, if there was one), it is being spoken of as though she were not present when she very much is. 

"My imperial title is Emperor, as all Emperors of Adrestia before me," she remarks calmly but there is a steely undertone in her voice that draws all eyes to her and she meets Reza's gaze until he glances away first. "And I am very fortunate to have excellent ministers who are more than capable of handling affairs of state in my temporary absence. This is a rare opportunity so I would not mind having the chance to see more of Ishfa while I am here." She has a feeling she might regret that last sentence as Farokh's eyes brighten but Claude's eyes are twinkling and Reza is still directing his glare at the flowers, so Edelgard saves the regret for later.

Beside her, Bernadetta pipes up, "We also need to get gifts for, um, for our friends. Hubert asked for, uh ..." She trails off, clearly realizing, too late, that Hubert's request is probably not fit for disclosure (Edelgard suspects various possibly-nefarious essences and herbs), then rallies with a valiant, "F-Ferdinand asked me to get him a woven saddle blanket!"

Amir, to his credit, recovers quickly and immediately launches into a listing of excellent craftsmen for horsing tack, and the conversation turns to the sites and attractions that landed Ishfa the title of the Jewel of Almyra.

(Later that evening, she notes that the guards outside her gates are faces she recognizes from the troops that marched with Nader to escort her from the border. She has little doubt who is responsible for this literal changing of the guards, but finds it oddly comforting nevertheless. She tells herself, very logically, that it is because she would rather contend with Claude's spies than the Chief Steward's.)

*

While Edelgard is engaged in verbal gymnastics with the four royal princes, Dorothea is on her way to see a new friend.

She could really do without the cloak and dagger gambits that are becoming a feature of what would otherwise be a quite enjoyable trip. The palace is gorgeous, like an immensely well-financed stage, with nestling gardens and extravagantly painted walls, long marbled colonnades and honeycombed arches set with tiles that catch the light at all angles, revealing subtly different beauty at every hour of the day. And Ishfa itself, from what little she has seen, provides a colourful, vibrant backdrop, with its elegant domes, expansive murals, and fiery-sweet spices. She can almost hear the opening chords of a ballad, trilling like the songbirds kept in the immense royal aviary. 

Unfortunately, their trip is also beginning to resemble a grand operatic production in other, less delightful ways. The suspenseful intrigue of assassinations and power struggles plays far better on stage, set to soaring arias and elaborate coloratura, than in real life.

Much like war. 

Much like death. 

Dorothea has had enough of both to last her a lifetime, thanks very much. She wonders whether there is a theater out beyond the palace wall. She makes a mental note to ask Claude.

Claude. Or, more properly, especially here in Almyra, Prince Khalid, third son of the Great King Darius II and, by what gossip she has picked up, a politically active contender for the heir apparent vacancy. They had not known each other well at Garreg Mach but from the passing conversations they did have, Dorothea had gleaned a keen mind, irreverent of the trappings of nobility, which she had obviously approved of. Did she trust him? Of course not. She isn't blind. Claude likely has more secrets than would feasibly fit into even a grand opera. That had certainly been true at the Academy, before they'd known anything about his paternal heritage and Dorothea would bet her favourite hat that it continues to be true now.

Despite that, she's never disliked him. Her own life prior to the Academy had made her distressingly well-versed in two-faced personalities and she never saw that in Claude, never mind all of his slipperiness when it had come to the finer details of his personal history and intentions. And, well, Dorothea had partially sympathized with that as well. There were many good reasons one could have for being unwilling to share one's past with all and sundry. (Case in point: that assassination attempt. Suffice to say that, veiled political machinations aside, Dorothea does not harbour warm feelings toward the party (parties?) responsible for the night Claude had spent in the sitting room of their guest quarters, sallow and smiling with a painfully transparent rictus of gritted teeth.)

She rounds a corner and sets down a tiled pathway that is starting to become quite familiar. “Hello,” she calls, in purposefully stilted but confident Almyran, as she stops at the doorway to the rehearsal rooms of the court musicians and dancers quarters. “Madina?”

A petite wizened woman pokes her head out from behind a line of young dancers at Dorothea’s voice. “Lady Dorothea, you’re back again?”

“It's good to see you too,” Dorothea laughs as Madina adjusts a few postures, issues a set of practice directions and then marches over to her. Behind her, the young dancers, both male and female, began a series of intricate, boneless movements in perfect sync to the lute accompaniment, undulating and graceful. The more experienced dancers are training by themselves in one of the smaller rooms, afforded private musicians, to practice their individual trademark expressions of the music. 

Despite her advanced age, Madina still carries herself like a dancer, back straight, movements limber, and very energetic as Dorothea found out when she first ventured here on a maid’s stuttering directions to reinforce the budding friendships she made on the night of the welcome banquet. Madina had been wary at first, having a foreigner in her domain, but Dorothea had managed to charm her (she thinks – it’s hard to be sure) with her persistence and a small gift of Brigid fruit liqueur. She’d wanted to learn some of the songs performed at the ceremony and, unbeknownst to her at the time, the history of Almyran musical arts is a topic near and dear to Madina’s heart. 

“I came to collect on Safa's promise to teach me the rest of the verses to the ballad we started last time,” she says to the fearsome old woman. "Is she in today?"

"Of course she's in." Madina peers at her owlishly. She had been a great beauty and an even greater talent in her youth, Safa had told her, with a personal dance style that mesmerized and dominated court performances for the better part of two decades. When she retired to become the chief royal dance instructor, courtiers apparently attempted suicide out of despair for never being able to see her perform again. "But she won't be able to teach you much today. Her monthly bleeding has her laid up in bed, curled around her pillows."

Dorothea winces in sympathy. "Poor Safa."

Madina nods curtly, sharing in the acknowledgement, even as she taps her foot and glances toward the entrance impatiently. "We've been waiting all morning for one of the pharmacist's apprentices to deliver her usual soothing tonic. I have no idea why it is taking so long." Her tone clearly says that she finds the delay inexcusable.

"Why don't I get it for her? I don't have any other plans for the day."

Madina gives her a sharp look, but seeing only her genuine concern, seems to consider the offer. "It would be helpful. Safa's always had a worse time than most around her cycles."

"Just point me to where I should go."

"Left when you exit and at the third doorway, turn right. You should see a long saffron-columned colonnade. The apothecary is the building to the right, at the end. There will usually be plants drying in the front yard and any number of apprentices cutting and grinding dried herbs."

Sounds simple enough. "I'll be back before you know it. Tell Safa she owes me another lesson."

“Much appreciated, Your Highness.”

“Please, Madina, you sound more respectful when you’re just using my name. I feel like a spoiled child when you say my title.”

Madina laughs at that and waves her off imperiously, already turning back to her students with a critical eye.

*

Dorothea finds the apothecary easily enough with Madina's precise directions and is asking a young man in broken Almyran about Safa's medicine when the words 'king' and 'illness' catch her attention. A pair of older men, robed in what she can only guess are the more intricate outfits of the official royal pharmacists, have entered the apothecary, heads bowed together in deep conversation. She is partially obstructed from their view by a shelf crammed with jars of dried and fresh herbs, and they do not appear to have noticed her.

"Sorry to have to ask you this," she says softly to the apprentice, all sweetness and charm, "I'm really quite embarrassed, but do you have any one who possibly speak Fodlanian? I'm afraid my Almyran is subpar to say the least." Untrue, but she needs a reason to dally and eavesdrop as much as she can while signalling that she could not possibly be eavesdropping because, oh dear, the language barrier.

It seems to work. The young man blushes pink across the bridge of his nose and assures her in halting Fodlanian that he will go fetch a more fluent colleague. "No hurry," she tells him with a smile, sending a silent apology to Safa for the delay. Then, she edges slowly toward the shelf, getting as close as she dares without alerting the duo to her presence. She is wearing a powdery jasmine perfume today, but she hopes that the powerful bitter-sharp-herbal smells of the apothecary will successfully mask the scent.

"The last tincture had no effect?" one of them is saying, speaking rapidly with a touch of agitation.

"No, he remains weak and confined mostly to bed." She has to strain to catch the second voice, speaking in a lower voice than his counterpart.

"Symptoms?"

"The same as before. Muscle weakness, headaches, extreme fatigue."

A sharp word that Dorothea does not know but guesses from context to be a curse. "Is it getting worse?"

"Not that we can tell. His heartbeat remains strong, thank the gods. But after the absence last month..."

"You don't have to remind me. I am well aware of the urgency. But there is nothing to do except to keep trying. Perhaps *** this time, with a cooling herb to balance the warmth of the previous medicines." Dorothea does not recognize the word for the suggested ingredient, but files it away to ask later.

"Report this to Chief Steward Firuz and the queen, but no one else, understand? Not even—"

"My lady?" The apprentice is back with a slightly older dark-haired woman in tow. "Zahra here speaks Fodlanian."

At the sound, the two men lift their heads sharply and cast dubious looks in their direction, which Dorothea studiously ignores in favour of smiling widely at the new arrival. "Thank you, that is a relief," she says, louder than strictly necessary, in Fodlanian. 

"My family is from near the border," Zahra explains in a quiet, scratchy voice. "So my Fodlanian is better than most of the other apprentices. How can we help you, my lady?"

The silence behind her is like a heavy stone weight. "I am here as a favour for Safa, of the musicians' court. I understand you have a tonic for her that you have not yet had time to deliver."

The weight lightens slowly, the stone of suspicion eroding, until she feels the tension of their suspicious stares drop away. But they do not continue their conversation, instead exiting in a swishing of robes.

"Of course, we always deliver a tonic for Lady Safa around this time of the month. I'm surprised it has not been dispatched yet. I will check and fetch the medicine for you."

"That would be much appreciated, thank you, Zahra." As Zahra steps up to a row of tin containers, searching, Dorothea turns to the young man who has not yet left. "Who were those men earlier?' she asks, keeping her tone and posture as casual as possible — just making small talk with no real interest in the answer.

"Chief Royal Physician Arash and Royal Physician Jan. Both very learned men and well-respected."

Chief Royal Physician. How much further could she risk prodding? Zahra has amassed a small legion of tins in front of her on the counter and is gathering precise measurements of dried flowers and herbs into a wooden mortar. A little bit more is probably fine, if she's careful about it.

"Hmm," Dorothea hums and rests a cheek against her hand in thought. The mannerism had started as a deliberate gesture to flatter her good side and appear docilely pensive, and somewhere along the way, had settled into a half-subconscious habit. And it _did_ flatter her good side, so why fight it? "I've had a slight but persistent migraine for a few days now. Do you think it would be possible for one of them to take a look at me?"

The younger man's eyebrows draw downwards into a look of dismay. "Oh, I am afraid not, my lady. The Chief Royal Physician tends exclusively to His Majesty. Even the royal family does not always have access to him."

She feigns surprise, careful not to overdo it. "His Majesty? But surely that does not keep him very busy. King Darius looks the very picture of health to me and easily in better shape than many men I've seen half his age."

For a split second, Dorothea worries that she has been too ambitious. It is not her subtlest attempt at fishing. But the young apprentice is just that: young, and he shakes his head before saying, "Chief Arash is also busy with the oversight of the entire apothecary and medical upkeep in the royal palace. He is a very busy man and busier still as of late. He will not be able to examine you, my lady. But if your headaches persist, I am sure one of the other Royal Physicians would be more than happy to assist."

"Well, I'm sure it's just a minor issue, no need to trouble the Chief Royal Physician. Perhaps I just need to adjust to the climate here."

That gets her an enthusiastic nod. "Oh, yes! It may well be a bout of heat fatigue and minor dehydration. We have a very effective tincture to ease the symptoms, but the best cure will still be plenty of water and keeping out of the sun during the midday hours when it is at its most intense." He looks very pleased to have been able to apply his learning to recommend a solution to her problems and Dorothea is touched by his eagerness to help.

"I will keep that in mind, thank you. You are well on your way to becoming a talented royal physician yourself."

His blush returns, deeper and rosier, and he mumbles a quick thanks before scurrying off to one of the opposite shelves, reaching for a large glass jar. As he fishes out a number of sachets and packages them carefully with a thick brown paper and twine, Dorothea can see that the tips of his ears still glow red. Adorable! 

Once she has Safa's tonic and her own heat exhaustion/dehydration remedy in hand, she thanks both of the apprentices and heads back toward the performers' quarters, drawing troubled connections in her mind. 

*

Edelgard ends up having to delay her appointment with Sura.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This month has been a bit rough creatively so I'm so glad I was able to finish this chapter in time to post in July...! (With a happy belated birthday to Best Boy, Claude/Khalid!) Hope everyone is continuing to stay in good health (and good spirits). 
> 
> Thank you, as always, to everyone for reading, leaving kudos, and commenting! You all rock and I hope this story is as fun for you to read as it has been for me to imagine and write (and hopefully a great deal less frustrating at times, haha) <3


	8. Chapter 8

They are sitting in the small inner garden, separated from the courtyard and main gardens by an arched wall overgrown with climbing roses, when Dorothea says, "The king is unwell, Edelgard." She keeps her voice soft, barely audible over the chirping of night insects and the burbling of the wall fountain, but the words cut through to Edelgard's attention like a strike of lightning, jolting her out of a post-dinner repose. It is portentous news and she looks sharply at Dorothea, who looks back with uncharacteristic grimness and continues, in a low murmur, to recount the chance encounter she had in the apothecary earlier that day.

When Dorothea finishes, Edelgard’s eyes dart of their own volition to the open archway, though it is, of course, empty. She thinks to the nagging sensation that has tickled at the back of her mind since Fodlan's Locket — a sensation that has only been heightened by the plethora of other signs since their arrival in Ishfa: the race back to the capital by the two eldest royal children, the noticeable signs of fatigue exhibited by the king during feast, the aggressive assassination attempt on Claude (which quickly veered into recklessness when they trespassed onto her grounds), the undercurrent of anxious urgency permeating the palace...

Something like dread rises, sour and bitter at the back of her throat despite the fig juice at which she sips. "They think he may be dying." Her words leave her in a whisper, as though loathe to be spoken out loud.

Dorothea's eyes are wide but she nods, the movement sharp with a rare anxiety – the same thought has clearly occurred to her as well. "What now, Edie?" Despite the playful moniker, there is no trace of levity in her voice.

Edelgard does not answer immediately. The king of Almyra is ill ( _and it may not be of natural causes_ , a voice that sounds distinctly like Hubert's says in her mind). There is no named heir. His adult children have all convened. And here she sits, representing a foreign power. It is a volatile situation. Hubert's voice sounds again in her mind, as clear as if he were standing there with them: _Leave, Lady Edelgard. It is too dangerous and the situation could collapse at any minute._

But... of course, she cannot do that.

"We stay our course," she says at last, meeting Dorothea's eyes steadily. "We certainly cannot leave unannounced in the night. We stay and we remain alert. I will send a message to Hubert first thing in the morning so that he may prepare in the event we may require assistance.” With express and repeated instructions not to take any hasty action _before_ they may require such assistance. She makes a note to send Byleth a separate message asking him to help rein in any of Hubert’s more impulsive instincts. “In the meantime, I believe it is high time I discussed arrangements for our departure with …” Well, under normal circumstances, she would expect to discuss it with the king himself. “With Claude,” she decides. As the official liaison for their visit here. 

A diplomatic mission does not simply leave at the drop of a coin after all, much less one that includes the Emperor herself. Ceremonies will need to be arranged and the right etiquette observed, even if against a backdrop of potential dynastic change. They’ll need to settle on a date as well, so Edelgard hopes Lysithea and Linhardt will have a breakthrough in their research soon. 

Dorothea nods again, less tense this time. As Edelgard has learned over the years of their acquaintance and close friendship, Dorothea has an impressive capacity for adaptation. A valuable asset to have on a mission such as this one and one that has just become all the more needed. 

"It would be nice if the next king was as interested in a quiet border," Dorothea murmurs, seemingly apropos of nothing, in that musing way of hers where she may plausibly be speaking only to herself, but Edelgard has no doubt she is the intended recipient.

Before she can respond (not that she knows what she would say yet — there is an implication to Dorothea's words that does not lend itself to a quick reaction), the sound of the front gates opening has them both lifting their heads attentively, relaxing again when Caspar's boisterous laugh and Linhardt's faint protests drift through the courtyard.

"An entire broadsword? How would that even work?" Curiosity and skepticism both colour Lysithea's voice.

"You gotta see it for yourself, Lysithea! Come with us next time!"

"I would advise against trying it, Caspar. Not even your stomach could digest steel and internal injuries are such a pain to treat."

A thump indicates that Caspar has likely slapped Linhardt's back in well-intentioned reassurance. Edelgard and Dorothea share an amused chuckle — it is not hard to imagine Linhardt’s patented expression of exhausted, mildly annoyed consternation. "Don't worry, Linhardt, he promised to teach me!"

"Sounds like everyone is back," Dorothea says, laughing. "Let's go hear what exciting adventures General Nader's soldiers have taken Caspar on." 

"You go ahead," Edelgard says, smiling. "I'll stay for a bit longer." 

Dorothea's look is knowing and she reaches out as she stands to press a hand lightly to Edelgard's shoulder, but is otherwise silent as she glides away in a rustling of robes, leaving Edelgard with only the sounds of nighttime and the churning waters of her own thoughts.

*

They do not bother with public teahouses and secrets routes in and out of the palace this time. While the king is temporarily... convalescing, he has directed his eldest son to assume responsibility for the royal hunt commemorating the Adrestian Emperor's historic visit. A high honour and a perfectly sufficient cover for a meeting. There are, after all, many logistical details to go over.

They are not discussing any of them.

"My people have been replaced at the Emperor's gates."

"Why did you not prevent it?"

Firuz raises an eyebrow. "His Majesty personally assigned responsibility for this visit, and authority over related details, to your brother. And he has General Nader's support. As you well know, Your Highness, General Nader remains untouchable."

"For now."

"This is why I advised against unusual, and unnecessary, actions, Prince Reza," Firuz continues, ignoring Reza's mutter. "Once his attention was drawn, I cannot directly oppose it. An intrusion into the Emperor's designated quarters here in the palace is equivalent to trespassing onto Fodlan territory itself. At the risk of repeating myself, it is highly ill-advised."

Far from chastened, Reza looks irate and put-upon. "I did not expect him to run _there_." Before Firuz can point out this is likely precisely _why_ his wily half-brother had done so, he continues, "This is exactly why we need to get rid of her as quickly as possible. If she had not been there, we would already be rid of him."

Firuz refrains from a sigh even as he wonders why Reza, usually far more astute, cannot grasp that Khalid is unlikely to succumb to assassination so easily (as a history of other such failed attempts clearly show). Something about his third royal brother has always brought out the worst in him. But it is time to temper such childish hostilities. "The most expedient way to ensure her departure is not with threats or hostility. Recall the ancient tale of the sun and the wind, if you will humour an old man, Prince Reza. Resistance will be met with resistance. Offer her any assistance she may need, offer it freely and genuinely. The sooner she obtains what she came for, the sooner she will gather her party and leave us."

"Provided she does not want Almyra's ruin at that half-blood's hands."

"Don't be a fool, Your Highness." Firuz's voice is perfectly bland, but Reza flinches nonetheless. "General Nader may be able to replace guards, but he can hardly offer up suitable substitutes for archivists and librarians. Their interest lies in the captured tribute. Despite her successful unification of Fodlan, I would wager she has internal rebuilding projects that demand her attention. Unless we invite it by presenting a danger to her interests, her instinct, if she is wise, should lean toward neutrality. But —" his voice drops lower, softer, a sure sign of danger for anyone who has even a passing acquaintance with the Chief Steward’s habits "— make no mistake, Prince Reza, I fully expect she will fight if given a cause. That much is clear from the war in Fodlan."

Reza's dark eyes glitter with disdain. "She is nothing to be afraid of."

"There is nothing to gain from open hostilities now." 

"Firuz is right." Amir strides onto the covered terrace, clearly having just returned from the riding grounds. "Whatever else may lie in our future with Fodlan, a battle on two fronts is never an ideal proposition."

"Precisely," Firuz says, bowing to the eldest prince. "I have made certain arrangements. I expect she will soon have cause to be concerned about matters within her own borders.”

*

Atusa, only daughter of the leader of the Karoush clan, mother to the second royal prince, second cousin to the Grand Vizier of Almyra through her mother's line, sips her coffee while said second cousin and her son speak of ambitions and grand affairs in the shaded pavilion of her courtyard. The roses are blooming exceptionally well this year, she thinks with a pleased smile. Perhaps she will ask for some to be gathered for her baths tonight.

Her attention drifts to, and lingers on, the conversation long enough to hear Roshan speak of the Adrestian Emperor's thirst for power, evident in her war of conquest.

Atusa would not be so sure of that herself, but it is typical of men to view all actions through the lens of power for its own sake. She is less interested in all this — the roots of the Karoush clan are strong enough to survive and thrive regardless of who ascends to the throne. But a certain amount of ambition and drive in a young man is healthy so she entertains such gatherings for Roshan and Farokh. 

"I have had word from my sources," Roshan is saying, a moue of displeasure on his plump, usually carefully-congenial face, "that a succession of principal wives of viziers and satraps with unmarried daughters have called upon the queen's residence lately." 

Atusa is no stranger to such visits — Farokh has yet to take a principal wife and, as his mother, she has received a steady stream of such visits from prominent families in Almyra ever since Farokh could walk. Has she been receiving fewer of them recently, she wonders. She'll have to ask her staff later. Her relative indifference should not be mistaken for ineptitude in the many ways in which the nobility signal allegiances and test waters with royal factions. 

*

Lysithea is so engrossed in the treatise on the theory behind infusing material with magical spells and properties – off-topic for their immediate purposes but some of these long-lost equations have the potential to revolutionize the field! – that she does not realize until she hears a small noise of frustration that there hasn’t been the sound of a page being flipped from Linhardt’s direction for some time. When she glances over, she finds him staring down at his book with an unusually intense look, a furrow in his brow that is usually reserved for when he is being forcibly awoken from a nap. 

"What is it?"

At her question, his head rises and he comes over, book in hand, pointing at something on the page. "This word... I know I've seen the script before somewhere but I do not recognize it."

Intrigued, she skims over the text quickly and catches the words 'guided implantation', ‘repository’ and 'Crest', her pulse quickening. Thoughts of magical-material sciences vanish from her head. "This is...!" She swallows her excitement and focuses on the word Linhardt is pointing to, embedded in a tantalizing sentence about practice techniques. The word, written in curved strokes unlike anything else on the page, snags her attention like a stumbling block. She has no idea what it says.

Correctly interpreting her silence as frustrated incomprehension, Linhardt sighs as he stares down at the page, as though willing with all the reserves of energy he normally did not have for the script to rearrange itself into something intelligible.

"This must be important," she says, taking a steadying breath. "We need to decipher it."

Linhardt hums in agreement. "Perhaps Professor Hanneman will know."

"What's got you both looking so glum?"

She does not quite jump when Claude's voice rings out and he pops up, with all the uncanny stealth and speed she remembers from their school days, right over their heads, peering down at the open page, but it is a close thing. Before her surprise has a chance to transition into a familiar exasperation, he leans in closer to where Linhardt is still tapping the mysterious word absently. 

"Pandora?"

Beside her, Linhardt jerks like Claude has just given him a physical jolt. Lysithea relates. "What did you say?" she asks, aware of the way her voice rises sharply, attention focused wholly on Claude.

He gives her a curious look. "Pandora," he repeats. "That's what it says."

"You can read it? How? It's not in any script I know."

"Ah, that's because it's not in the Church's uniform script. That word is written using an older vernacular script that was most prevalent in —"

"House Daphnel," Linhardt breathes.

Claude looks impressed. "That's right." He clears a small stack of papers and books away and places a basket down on the table. Her initial shock receding, Lysithea can smell mouthwatering notes of cinnamon, almonds and sugar. "It hasn't been used for generations," Claude continues. "I'm not surprised neither of you can read it."

"That's where I've seen it before," Linhardt says, half to himself. "It's used in some of the books that were recovered from Garreg Mach."

"How do _you_ know it?"

A quick unreadable look passes over Claude's face at the mention of Garreg Mach like a cloud before he smiles jauntily at her question. "Judith taught me," he says cheerfully, opening the basket and taking out plates of desserts that look even more delectable than they smell. "Cost me a whole month of sore muscles from extra training drills."

Despite their parting of ways, Lysithea had learned to read her former House leader a little during her time with the Golden Deers and the edge of wistful fondness in his voice prompts her to offer, "Lady Judith is doing well and inflicting sore muscles on a new generation of students every time she visits the Officers Academy." She pretends not to see the way his smile lifts as she reaches for a plate of fried pastries generously covered in powdered sugar.

Linhardt is already digging into a delicate glass bowl of what looks like golden rice pudding topped artfully with rose petals. Neither of them has eaten yet today.

Claude nibbles on a diamond-shaped cookie as he looks at them inquisitively. "So, what's Pandora?"

 _Pandora...._ Lysithea is momentarily distracted as she bites into her selected pastry rapturously. It's not until Claude goes on to say, "It means 'all-gifted', right?" that a bell goes off in her head.

"Oh!" Her exclamation startles both men, but she ignores them as she stuffs the rest of the pastry into her mouth and begins to rifle through a stack of her notes, not even caring that she is leaving oily sugar stains on all the papers. She finds what she is looking for in her notes on the various ledgers of requisition and transfer requests from scholars in various other parts of the kingdom. Linhardt had fallen asleep reading the records several times before Lysithea finally took over. "Here it is!" She grabs the paper and holds it up triumphantly. "I thought the name was familiar! I couldn't see any relevance at the time but look: 'Pandora, statuette, request for transfer granted in Year 3 of Great King Khosrau by Navid ibn Yazid'."

"Where was it transferred to?" Linhardt asks.

"Says here a place called 'Haraj'."

"That was over seventy years ago," Claude says. "Where is it now? Wasn’t it in the artifacts collected from the treasury?"

Lysithea frowns as she reads over her notes again. "No, there are no records of it being returned to Ishfa." This is starting to feel like a scavenger hunt.

*

It turns out that Haraj, an oasis town by the edge of the expansive desert in Almyra's southeast quarter, is about an eight-day roundtrip from Ishfa.

"By land," Claude says, cupping his chin as he studies the map spread out on the table. The remnants of desserts (only crumbs and sticky utensils to show for them now) and papers have been shoved unceremoniously to one side.

Edelgard raises an eyebrow. "Is there another option?" 

She had been gathered by Lysithea and Claude, the former nearly bursting at the seams with the news of their discovery, just as she was preparing to bring her encrypted letters down to the courier station. Once she’d heard the basics, Edelgard had followed them back to the library quickly. (Linhardt, unsurprisingly, had declined to make the journey back in the sun, having pointed out very reasonably, according to Claude, that one messenger was sufficient, two was abundant, and three would simply be excessive.)

"It's a two-day flight on wyvernback. Artemisia can cover it in a day and a half." 

Artemisia is Claude's wyvern — bone-white and infamous enough for her refusal to allow anyone else to handle her that even Edelgard has heard about the time Artemisia almost took someone's sword arm for attempting to saddle her without Claude present.

“And is Artemisia available?”

He grins in a way that has Edelgard strongly resisting the urge to narrow her eyes. Lysithea has no such compunctions. "For the esteemed Emperor of Adrestia and my favourite fawnlet? Say no more. I’ll have this Pandora in your hands by the end of the week." Lysithea graciously ignores the nickname, but Edelgard can see that it costs her in the twitch of her eye. "Besides, I've been thinking of stretching her wings with a longer flight."

"I should go too,” Lysithea says. “You might need help identifying it.”

Edelgard finds herself in the strange position of sharing a look of concern with Claude. For reasons unclear to them, despite having undergone similar experiments, Lysithea’s health had been left far more fragile than her own and Edelgard is unwilling to test how well Lysithea can withstand the rigours of hard travel on wyvernback through what she expects will be an unforgiving environment. Claude seems to be having more or less the same thought process.

“Lysithea, your time is far better spent here.”

“But—”

“Would you object to me accompanying you, Claude?” She senses that some having another person go would help to ease the restlessness that is driving Lysithea’s desire to go despite her general dislike for any sort of strenuous physical activity. Truth be told, Edelgard would feel better to be doing something as well. Lysithea is not the only one feeling restless, Edelgard admits to herself. 

Claude does not look at all fazed by this turn. On the contrary, he responds with a rakish grin. “How could I say no? Though I'm afraid you will have to share Artemisia — there is no other wyvern in the royal roosts who can keep up with her and I'm guessing you'll wish to make the best possible time. Ah, and to that same point, we can forgo an escort, I imagine? It'll only slow us down."

She hesitates, not over the thought of sharing a mount or lack of escort — the two of them are more than sufficient to handle any run-of-the-mill threats that may arise. Yet, she hesitates, the news of the night before weighing on her mind. Is it fair to ask him to leave the capital given the circumstances?

As the pause lengthens, Claude cocks a quizzical eyebrow. "You would prefer an escort, Edelgard? I'm hurt." 

It’s the renewed look of puzzled anxiety Lysithea gives her that settles the matter for Edelgard. Claude surely understands the intricacies of the situation better than her and if he is comfortable to undertake this trip, she feels no pressing need to question his judgement. She returns Lysithea's look with a reassuring smile. "No escort needed," she replies to Claude. "How soon can we leave?"

He gives her a look that says he’s well aware she's sidestepped his real question but does not press further. (For now. The only predictable thing about Claude is that he cannot leave an unanswered question alone and will surely attempt to ask it again soon.) "I recommend we depart tomorrow. It is a little unorthodox, so leaving as soon as possible will help to avoid any delays." She gathers that he must mean that it would give anyone who may want to object to the trip or the way it will be conducted less of an opportunity to raise those objections.

Which is fine for Edelgard. "I'll be ready." 

"That’s settled then! Pack simply," Claude advises her. "The lighter her burden, the faster she flies." He gives Lysithea a gentle pat on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, we’ll have Pandora in your hands before you know it.”

*

When Edelgard announces the imminent trip over dinner that evening, Dorothea asks the first and most relevant question.

"How long will you be away?"

"If Claude’s estimate is right, I should be back in time for my appointment with General Sura."

"Man, I wish I could see it too! Do you think you'll run into the pirates? I never would have thought you could have desert pirates!" Caspar's initial disappointment at not being able to accompany them had passed quickly into vicarious excitement. 

"You've fought bandits in the desert before," Linhardt points out. "How is that any different?"

"These are _pirates_ , Linhardt! I heard they've got ships that sail on the sand! How cool is that? What do you think fighting on a sandship would be like?"

"I would die of sunstroke before any sand pirate kills me," Linhardt sighs, frowning. Edelgard can see the combined thoughts of sun, sand, heat and battle threatening to send him into an exhausted stupor. 

" _Desert_ pirates," Caspar corrects as he continues to enthuse over the idea.

"Um, Edelgard?" 

"Yes, Bernadetta? Do you wish to come as well?" She is teasing gently, but she can see Bernadetta is indeed torn between her curiosity about new places (in theory) and her desire to never be sent on a solo mission. 

"Don't tease me, Your Majesty!" Bernadetta shakes her head vigorously. "B-but, could you please, if it's not too much trouble, bring back a bottle of sand for me? So I can get the colours right! I, um, I want to try painting it...." She trails off, swallowing the words at the end, still skittish about this particular hobby and perhaps dreading that Edelgard would demand to see the eventual painting in return for the bottle of sand.

Biting back a fond chuckle, Edelgard nods gravely. "I shall be sure to do so. It is not such a large request. According to Claude, Haraj attracts many artisans. I will try to bring you back a reference picture if I am able to find one." The way Bernadetta's eyes light up makes Edelgard hope that she will be able to see the scenery for herself one day. 

"Be careful while I am away," she tells them, heart full as she again realizes how privileged and fortunate she has been to be able to call these talented, steadfast individuals — each brilliant in their own ways — her friends and comrades.

"Don't worry about us, Edelgard!"

"Caspar is right," Dorothea agrees with a wink. "We can take care of ourselves."

Edelgard does not doubt that, but she cannot help the worry that worms its way into her chest. But, as with so many things, she can only trust in them and forge forward.

This promises to be a major breakthrough. Whatever else may come, if the Pandora figurine truly is the last piece of the puzzle that Linhardt, Lysithea and Hanneman have been searching for, this whole trip will be worth it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things that contributed to this chapter being delayed (among irl complications and deadlines): spending hours on google images trying to figure out how a two-person saddle would work on a wyvern and pondering the interesting (but largely useless) fact that Fire Emblem's pegasus riders straddle in front of the wings while in other series (thinking mainly of Valkyrie in Thor, the first other pegasus rider I thought of) the wings are more toward the front so the rider sits behind the wing. 
> 
> Thank you to FFXIV's two-person Draught Chocobo for ultimately helping me visualize it. And then we didn't even get to it this chapter! So that's a preview for next time, haha.
> 
> Thanks for everyone's patience and encouragement. Hope all U.S. and Canadian readers had a great Labour Day weekend! Hard to believe we're officially in autumn...


	9. Chapter 9

Roshan is objecting, for the third time, to the ‘unorthodox’ nature and ‘ill-advised haste’ of the trip when Nader arrives with Edelgard's party at the royal roosts that afternoon, the Emperor herself chatting amiably with Nader. She is dressed for flying in a blend of Almyran and Adrestian tradition, high boots over loose leggings under a stiff-collared robe cinched with a gold and sable sash. Claude would put money on the fact that the Almyran parts of the attire, including the beaded lilac scarf draped over her hair like a hood, had been provided by his mother after he’d informed her of the trip last night (just as he would bet bullions on Edelgard wearing a set of leather armour under her deceptively lightweight outerwear). 

“Roshan,” Claude interrupts before the man can say the word ‘unorthodox’ again, “the king personally approved this excursion and I have been instructed, in open court – Farokh, you were there as I recall –” he addresses his brother, standing off to the side, so far content to allow Roshan to press the matter “– to make _every effort_ to accommodate Her Imperial Majesty. Surely you are not asking me to contravene a royal decree? That’s a capital offense and, you know me: rule-abiding to a fault.” 

Roshan’s reaction to that suggests he has a stomachache. 

Claude ignores his pinched expression and continues, “Besides, if there is anything objectionable about this, the Chief Steward would surely have been the first to raise it, as a matter of protocol.” Firuz had been thin-lipped, hands clasped together tightly and dark eyes frigid, when Claude apprised him of the situation in the morning but he had known better than to vocalize concerns when the king’s seal was clear on the document Claude showed him. Firuz’s judgement had always been a hair more astute than Roshan’s.

“Speaking of Her Majesty.” Claude nods to the arriving party and Nader salutes them all.

Roshan and Farokh turn as one, Roshan with a formal bow and Farokh stepping forward to dip a bow over Edelgard’s hand. Edelgard allows her hand to be taken, but withdraws before Farokh has fully straightened, nodding a greeting to the Grand Vizier and pair of royal brothers. Claude schools his own expression and bows with a flourish. 

She doesn’t quite manage to hide the telltale twitch of her eyes – a sure sign of consternation that she apparently hasn’t managed to kick from her younger years.

“Is something the matter?” Edelgard asks Roshan. “You look distressed, Grand Vizier Roshan.”

“Your Majesty, this is most unorthodox –” Claude rolls his eyes behind Roshan’s back “– for a guest of your stature to leave on a trip with so little notice and no protective escort.”

“If you would like to see more of Almyra outside of Ishfa,” Farokh cuts in smoothly, “I am more than happy to arrange an excursion befitting for such a greatly honoured guest, in comfort and style.”

“Thank you, but this trip is not for pleasure,” Edelgard says, “and it was at my request that Prince Khalid arranged for an expedited departure. Any breach of protocol originates with me, I’m afraid. Certainly I have been told I can be impulsive –” Claude tries to imagine any of her Black Eagles saying so and is amused to discover he can easily imagine most of them doing that “– but as Prince Khalid and I are former schoolmates after all, I expected a certain amount of formality could be forgone. If a formal request to the king is more appropriate…” She trails off, glancing from the Grand Vizier to Farokh.

Claude is impressed. Edelgard has learned to be far more politic in the intervening years. It would hardly do for either to imply that she had acted improperly. Especially when Claude is holding the king’s seal of approval. Literally.

Roshan squares his shoulders, fleshy like the rest of him from decades of all kinds of indulgences that power affords, and makes a last ditch effort. “I understand this concerns a Fodlanian object mistakenly left in Haraj … surely there is no need for Your Majesty to make such a trip – a simple retrieval errand – personally?” His gaze flits to her party in an unspoken question (or, rather, a suggestion).

Almost as though they had rehearsed it, Edelgard’s companions pipe up, one after the other. Dorothea pleads, with a flutter of eyelashes, a fear of heights (a blatant lie if the smile on her lips as she makes that confession is anything to go by). Caspar goes next with a sheepish look: “Never been great with high places either.” (Claude believes him.) Bernadetta’s objection is barely intelligible, her words coming fast and high and with vigorous headshaking. (The meaning, if not necessarily the words, is clear enough.) Lysithea just crosses her arms, the beginnings of impatience on her face, likely because of the unfolding delay in the schedule.

“And, as I’m sure you can appreciate, my researchers are needed here.” Edelgard places a hand protectively (or, possibly, restrainingly) on Lysithea’s shoulder. “Is there a reason,” she continues innocuously, “this is an inconvenient time for me to undertake a brief excursion? As I said, I am happy to request an audience to speak directly with King Darius about this.”

 _Oh?_ Claude doesn’t miss the miniscule uptick of her eyebrow or the way her eyes flicker, lightning-quick, to him before settling back on Roshan, awaiting a response. A good reminder not to underestimate her or her team. At her side, Farokh’s urbane smile dips at the edges, the corners of his eyes tightening.

Roshan, meanwhile, concedes defeat and gives her another deep bow. “Of course it is not inconvenient, Your Majesty. His Majesty has made it clear to all of us, his loyal subjects, that the smooth and complete return of the Fodlanian objects is the top priority for Your Majesty’s visit and that we are to facilitate whenever and however possible. It is neither my intention nor my place to object. I was merely concerned about the practicalities of arranging such a trip for Your Majesty’s comfort and safety.”

She turns expectantly to Nader with a smile on her lips. Claude only has a second to wonder why before realizing that the axe Nader is holding is not his own. This is confirmed when Nader grins broadly and holds it out to Edelgard, apparently returning it to her. "It's an excellent weapon, Your Majesty, but not, unless my eyes are feebler with age than I would hope, the one you wielded in our last battle."

Edelgard takes the axe, straps it expertly to her back. "No, there is no deceiving your eyes, General Nader. I did not expect to require my personal weapon on this journey. This one, as you say, is well-made and more than sufficient for self-defense on the roads.” She looks back to Roshan. “Worry not, I am accustomed to the rigors of travel and I am confident we will be quite safe.” 

“As you say, Your Majesty,” Roshan murmurs. Claude doubts they had strong hopes of successfully thwarting the trip, but perhaps they thought they could persuade Edelgard to send someone else in her stead.

“Between the two of us,” Claude says, mostly to needle Roshan but also to put the matter to bed, “I believe we should be safe enough for my brother and the Grand Vizier’s peace of mind. So long as you do not to use it on me.” He is mostly joking.

“Do not give me a reason to,” Edelgard replies wryly.

Nader laughs, the traitor. Farokh smiles as well, a small amused expression that does not look, for once, calculated for Edelgard’s eyes. _Huh_.

Claude shakes his head. “I’m afraid my track record has not been terribly promising in that respect. Nader, if I don’t make it back, promise me you’ll take good care of Artemisia.”

Artemisia snorts at the mention of her name, stretching her wings impatiently.

Nader grins at him and claps him, hard, on the shoulder. “I believe in Your Highness’ survival instincts.”

Caspar guffaws and even Bernadetta giggles, as Lysithea and Dorothea smirk. Claude shakes his head and shrugs at Farokh, as if to say, _See what I had to go through in Fodlan, brother_? Farokh looks torn between amusement and bewilderment at being included in Claude’s gesture but he eventually settles on giving Claude a half-amused, half-sympathetic (or a good enough imitation) look back. Not that his brother would mourn terribly if Claude did end up lost (or dead) on this trip, he thinks, but they all have a vested interest in seeing Edelgard return whole and unharmed.

“If you’ll be flying in the sun,” Farokh says to Edelgard, pivoting deftly, “you’ll want to wrap your hair better for protection. Allow me.” Edelgard’s scarf is pulled up over her hair and pinned into place, but Farokh is right – it is better to wrap the fabric, both for better sun protection and to prevent it from being blown off.

Claude tugs his own sash more snugly around his head as he watches Farokh step in to adjust Edelgard’s scarf. She lets him, a certain stiffness in the way she holds herself. 

“Take good care of Edie, won’t you?” He may be imagining it, but he hears a distinct _You’d better_ unspoken in Dorothea’s words.

"Of course, you can count on me, Dorothea,” Claude smiles. She smiles back, sweetly, and Claude despairs for the havoc she might wreak on the palace staff with that smile.

From the corner of his eye, he can see Farokh instructing Edelgard on how to draw the scarf across her nose and mouth to protect from sand and dust as needed, securing it behind her ear. 

“Ready –” he nearly says _princess_ , but there are other people present “– Your Majesty?” If Edelgard notices the faint hiccup of hesitation, she does not react to it. Instead, a hint of uncertainty flashes across her face chased quickly by a steely determination as she nods and approaches Artemisia, who is watching her carefully. Artemisia had not enjoyed being strapped with the two-seated saddle this morning. 

He swings easily onto the front seat and gives Artemisia a reassuring pat before offering a hand to Edelgard. Again, that look of uncertainty, her eyes flickering to Dorothea quickly. (He was right then – out of all of them, Dorothea is likely the most practiced wyvern-rider. Unsurprisingly given who she had married. Petra had been one of Edelgard’s most effective wyvern rider generals during the War.) Something invisible passes between the women, then Edelgard reaches up and grasps his hand, managing to climb into the backseat with minimal difficulty though it’s by no means a practiced movement.

They say a final round of goodbyes, then Claude whistles a command to Artemisia and they are airborne with two flaps of her powerful wings. As they wheel away, he sees the figure of Firuz watching from the expansive portico to the main audience hall and his mother on her terrace, receding into tiny, faceless smudges of colour along with the farewell party gathered in the roost and, eventually, Ishfa itself.

*

Edelgard relaxes gradually as the flight goes on. They’ve long since left Ishfa behind, the magnificent city vanishing behind them as the landscape below slowly becomes dryer and rockier, with scrubby grasses and the occasional squat tree. 

They'd left in the afternoon to avoid the highest point of the sun, and while Artemisia is incredibly steady despite the heat, by the time they land for the evening, Edelgard's back, arms and legs are all sore. Her eyes and throat are parched and scratchy in spite of the many times Claude had passed her a waterskin mid-air with a reminder to stay hydrated. She's never been entirely comfortable with intense heat and she may have underestimated how much more unforgiving the Almyran climate is outside of the ready shade and cool drinks available around every corner in the palace. 

Claude, on the other hand, still looks remarkably fresh, much to her irrational irritation. The only sign he gives of having flown for hours is the state of his hair once he unwinds his head sash, but then he binds it around his head once and manages to look rakish rather than unkempt as he helps her dismount and unsaddles Artemisia for the night. 

The moon is already high in the sky.

"We made good time," Claude says, confirming her suspicions. "At this rate, we'll get there before noon tomorrow, which is for the best. Flying in full sun is always hard and it'll get harder once we enter the desert for real."

"Where are we now?" Her voice rasps and she gratefully accepts the waterskin Claude hands her, washing the grit and dust from her mouth and throat.

"Right on the edge. Another half hour and we'll be over the first dunes, so this is a good place to stop for the night. It's harder to set up camp in the desert and better to get an early start at dawn instead."

She is on unfamiliar ground here both literally and figuratively, so has not choice but to defer to his judgement. It sounds sensible enough.

Claude deftly sets up their tents for the night ("not as luxurious as the tents Nader had for your ride from the Throat, I'm afraid, but comfortable enough for one night") while Edelgard gathers firewood from the surrounding thorny bushes to build a small fire. The rhythm of setting up camp is familiar to her at least – she’d done her fair share of building campfires and erecting tents (though never cooking – by unanimous vote) when the Black Eagle Strike Force had set out as vanguard forces. 

Claude joins her by the fire, an ornate silver canteen dangling from one hand and a laden woven basket in the other. Seeing her pointed stare, he laughs, setting down his load. “I know, I told you to pack light, but food is different! We can’t skimp on the food.” 

And, saying so, he pulls out fresh figs, smoked meats, fluffy flatbreads, stuffed peppers, marinated olives and – to Edelgard’s silent delight – what looks to be a pastry with chopped nuts and spices stuffed between countless sheets of thin, flaky dough, all drenched in honey. She immediately forgives any time Artemisia may have lost carrying the hefty-looking dessert.

“Grab that for me.” Claude indicates the canteen with his chin as he rummages around the bottom of the basket, emerging triumphantly with two matching silver cups. A habitual wariness rears its head as she uncorks the canteen – the fragrance of mint and rose and honey rises from the open mouth, and she relaxes. Pours the tea into the cups Claude is holding out to her.

As they settle by the fire to eat, Artemisia rises from where she’d been resting since they landed and, after scenting the wind, takes off into the night. Edelgard watches her leave, an elegant pale streak receding into the dark canvas of night, curious but not alarmed.

“She’s off to hunt and find water,” Claude says, watching her watch his wyvern. “She’ll be back soon.”

She hums but is too tired to keep up with Claude’s usual method of conversation (an ever-shifting mixture of inside joke, winking nuance, and the sensation of playing multiple games of chess simultaneously). She is grateful for the companionable silence that holds as they eat the rest of the meal. (The dessert is every bit as decadent as it looks and Edelgard wonders if the royal chefs at Ishfa could be persuaded to provide the recipe in the name of geopolitical détente and friendship.)

Artemisa returns as they are finishing up, sweetness still lingering on Edelgard’s tongue, a ghost gliding out of the moonlit darkness. There is a light spray of blood around her muzzle and claws, which she immediately sets to grooming. Claude gets up to greet her, then begins to run his hands in firm, sweeping motions down her right wing. 

“It helps her to relax and recover from the flight,” he says when he sees Edelgard looking. “Care to help?”

She gets up and steps closer, stopping at what she judges to be a respectful distance from the wyvern, who is regarding her with one attentive but (she hopes) less wary eye than that afternoon. “I understand she’s not fond of other people handling her.”

Claude smiles. “She doesn't like it when people take liberties, like any of us, but if you're respectful and careful, she's a sweet girl.” He murmurs to the wyvern in Almyran – words Edelgard do not understand – and Artemisia makes an almost purring vibration from deep within her chest.

And so Edelgard spends her first evening in Almyra outside of Ishfa since she arrived learning the proper technique to massaging a wyvern’s wings, the hide rough and scaly in most places but giving way to buttery softness where the wing connects to the body in the unprotected underside. She takes care not to press too hard or move too quickly, trying to mirror the broad strokes of Claude’s movements as best she can. Artemisia must find it passable because she continues to make that strange rumbling sound, laying on the ground and closing her eyes.

"She was the runt of her litter," Claude says, eyes focused on his own hand movements, "which is why she’s smaller than most adult wyverns." 

She listens with interest, both for the fact that Claude is voluntarily sharing something that seems real and the simple fact that she finds the wyvern's story compelling. She stays silent in a way that she hopes is encouraging, not wanting to break Claude out of whatever mood is prompting him to share. 

"Didn't help that she couldn't compete with her clutch-mates for food and her mother wasn't terribly interested in nursing her. A few days after she hatched, she was so weak she could barely manage a squeak. In the wild, that would have been it. But she was born in the royal hatchery, so the stewards decided she would be perfect for the half-blooded princeling."

She glances over, catches the bittersweet ghost of a smile on his lips, barely visible in the dark. Bitter for the blatant show of disfavour, she surmises with a flash of indignation on behalf of his younger self, and sweet for the serendipity that it brought him together with his beloved companion. 

He had handnursed her, he tells her, and his mother had found him sleeping curled protectively around the baby wyvern in the hatchery on more than one occasion. "And now," he says with an unmistakable edge of pride, "no other wyvern can match her for speed."

Artemisia rumbles affectionately, reacting to something in his voice, and lifts her head to nose against his chest before dropping back into repose.

When they stop to retire for the night, she asks, out of habit, whether they need to rotate watch, even though she had seen little more than optimistic sheep roaming beneath them, any scraggly tufts of vegetation lost from the air in the wide expanse of burnt sienna rock and dirt.

"No need," he replies, stamping out the fire and tossing a fistful of coarse sand on it for good measure. "Artemisia will alert us to any unwelcome guests, but it's unlikely we'll get any."

That is good enough for her – she is more tired than expected, the soreness of the flight settling into her muscles, and she wishes him a perfunctory good night before ducking into one of the tents. She's asleep as soon as she crawls into her bedroll. 

*

Claude wakes her at dawn the next morning with a cheerful, "Rise and shine, princess!" outside her tent. The sun is a glowing rosy promise in the east and the air is still comfortably cool. Her muscles are sore, but she feels remarkably refreshed.

After a light breakfast of figs and honeyed bread, washed down with the last of the mint-rose tea, they make short work of packing up and, when she swings herself onto the back saddle, she does so with a little more ease and comfort than the previous day.

Claude’s judgement had been accurate – they reach the edge of the true desert soon after setting off from their campsite, just as the sun peeks out over the endless dunes. The effect is harsh and stunning, the golden light glinting clear and crisp off the undulating sands, the wind combing ripples through the grains. As in Ishfa, the blue skies are entirely cloudless.

As they fly, Edelgard catches sight of, among the shifting sands that have taken over the landscape from the flat rocky terrain interspersed with scrubby grass patches of the day before, crumbling towers that clearly once kept watch over the land. 

"Ancient fortifications," Claude explains over his shoulder when she finally gives into her curiosity and points at one in a silent question. He guides Artemisia closer to circle one of them at a lower height and Edelgard sees how carefully they must have been built. Now ruined by gusting winds and blasting sands. She tugs her scarf closer against her nose and mouth. There are no other signs of habitation. 

Claude must notice the movement of her head as she looks around, because he says, "The villages they guarded are all buried by the sands now. Centuries ago, there was a river that ran through this valley, if you can believe it, and there were dozens of small villages that dotted the riverbank. Then, the river ran dry and the desert came further north. Now, these towers are all that are left of that."

"And Haraj?"

"Haraj used to sit right at the edge. It's still not that far in, compared to the size of the Silent Quarter, but it's properly among the sand sea now.” The Silent Quarter: the eerie, evocative name the Almyrans gave to their vast southeastern desert. “Luckily,” Claude continues, “Haraj has a reservoir of water that feeds the spring on which it sits so it's survived as an oasis." Artemisia completes another low circuit and starts to climb again on a whistling note from him, winging due south. "You'll see when we get there. It's not far now."

They pass over other towering configurations of rocks that Edelgard has never seen before: great hourglass shapes carved out and worn smooth by untold centuries of wind and blasting sands, clusters of russet and ivory crystal-rocks blooming like roses out of the ground ("desert roses," Claude says over the wind when she points them out), multi-coloured stones moulded into amorphous shapes that distort Artemisia's shadow as she glides over them. At one point, she thinks she sees the curve of a white sail disappearing behind a distant dune but it’s gone when she blinks.

Haraj comes into view mid-morning, the glittering of the pristine teardrop-shaped lake visible from leagues away among the endless stretch of golden dunes. It is a small place, more a smattering of low buildings and sturdy tents than a true town. The one similarity that Edelgard can see to Ishfa is the appreciation for art integrated into every building, a riot of colours and geometry from the air. The sunlight sparkling off the adjacent lake heightens the effect. 

The oasis is unlike anything Edelgard has ever seen – a small piece of fertile greenery seemingly plucked from a world away and planted into the middle of the desert. There are tall date palms, their glossy fronds waving in the hot dry breeze, lush grasses, and all manner of fruit trees, some flowering and some already bearing harvest. The main square, stretching out on one side to the water, is flanked by a domed building too beautifully painted to not be of some significance and a modestly-sized but thriving covered market on the other end where men and women dressed in brightly-coloured robes mingle. In the center of the square is a dainty jewel of a reflecting pool, no longer than the length of Artemisia and certainly smaller than anything in the palace in Ishfa, but no doubt an immense luxury here, at one of the last outposts on the edge of a millennia-old sea of sand and rock. 

As Claude guides Artemisia to a landing in the walled courtyard of the domed building, Edelgard smells the sweet fragrance of ripening fruit and hears the gentle lapping of water. 

"This is the archival building," Claude says as he helps her dismount and unsaddles the wyvern, absently giving her an affectionate rub across her brow ridge. "Well, it's a bit of everything. Archives, temple, orchards, public gardens. Gotta be efficient with space in a place of this size."

"So the figurine is in here?" It's smaller than she expected (though she truly had very little idea of what to expect), though that is a boon in this case, she supposes. Less area to cover.

"It's the most likely place," Claude agrees, "but we can't get in yet. We need someone to unlock it for us."

She tamps down a flash of impatience and nods once, just shy of curt – the remnants of the teenage imperial princess peeking through. 

(For his part, Claude finds the hint of impatience reassuring: the thought that beneath the nearly unflappable demeanour of the Emperor of Adrestia Edelgard has maintained since her arrival, the core of the sharp, demanding (of herself and others) schoolmate he remembers is still there. When he grins, half of his bemusement is self-directed.) 

"Follow me, princess."

As if she has a choice, Edelgard thinks but does not voice. No need to give him yet another reason to smirk at her. 

Claude leads her out of the courtyard and down a narrow curving path, away from the lake. On the way, he explains that they are going to see the elder, who, in the absence of an appointed governor (Haraj being too small for such a formal political functionary), is the de facto town leader. He stops in front of a low stone fence with flowers painted on the doorway. Inside is a squarish mudbrick house, from which emerges an older man, slightly stooped with age, who Claude introduces to her as Yousaf, the elder of Haraj. 

"Welcome to Haraj, Your Majesty. Town head here merely means that I greet His Highness when he visits – or he greets me more often than not since he does not often give an old man advance warning – and send the occasional report to Ishfa, which are promptly set aside, I imagine," Yousaf tells her, eyes twinkling after bowing to her with all the grace and formality of a courtier. She had been somewhat concerned about how he would take their – particularly her – unannounced arrival but his voice is warm, his Fodlanian melodious, and Edelgard finds herself at ease. 

"Yousaf is also gracious enough to host when an errant royal wanders into town. We'll be imposing on you again, I'm afraid, Yousaf, but it's only for one night. Her Majesty is adamant we make it back to Ishfa by the end of the week. We’re here to retrieve a sculpture that was transferred here from the royal treasury about seventy years ago."

"That would be before even my time," Yousaf says, stroking his thin white beard in thought, "but there should be records in the archives and, in any case, the collection here is not very large. I do wish you'd have given me some notice of your arrival, Your Highness, especially with such an esteemed guest as the Adrestian Emperor.”

“We don’t need to announce that widely.” 

“I would have prepared the wing in the qasr for you,” Yousaf concludes over Claude’s interjection.

"There's no need to disrupt the children's schedules," Claude says, "and there was no time anyway! Like I said, this trip was very spontaneous! You would not believe the grief Roshan worked himself into. Besides which, I’ve missed the food at your house, Yousaf."

Yousaf shakes his head at Claude, a smile on his lips. "As you say, Your Highness. In that case, I and my family are, as always, honoured to have you in our home. And you, Your Majesty."

Edelgard is almost startled when he addresses her, having been lost in the thought that Claude and Yousaf must have a history together, given the way the conversation feels like a well-worn glove. "Thank you for your hospitality," comes out of her mouth automatically and she can sense, without looking, Claude's grin at the mechanical response. 

"Your Majesty honours me greatly," Yousaf smiles, then claps his hands once with the energy of a man half his age. "But you are both on urgent business. Let me not delay you any further and fetch the key."

As he does that, disappearing into a side annex, Edelgard turns to Claude. "I have no objections to staying here for the night, but is it not an imposition?"

He smiles at her crookedly, looking in the direction of the domed building that Yousaf had called the qasr. "It may surprise you to know that my brothers never come here, and Sura prefers to camp with her soldiers when she is in the area. There is little reason, between the dearth of subjects and inhospitable climate, for the court to make a stop here in the king’s travelling season. On my last visit, I took it upon myself to instruct that the housing wing be converted into a space for the children here to be schooled. It's just empty space that is being wasted otherwise and, as you can imagine, space is a scarce resource here. Temporarily, of course, since it is meant to be for royal use." Claude affects a mock-stern look. “But,” he shrugs, smiling easily again, “I wasn’t lying when I said the food at Yousaf’s is excellent.” 

Edelgard is momentarily stunned. A local educational initiative? Questions bubble up in rapid succession: how many children? How are classes structured? What lessons are taught and who decides? How do they account for differences in prior knowledge? Did they allow all children to attend? (Knowing Claude, she strongly suspects the answer to the last question be to affirmative but if so, even more questions arise.) Before she gets the chance to ask any of them, Yousaf is back, a heavy brass key in hand. 

Maybe Claude saw the questions in her eyes, because as they follow Yousaf back to the qasr, he bends a little to murmur to her, "All I did was authorize the use of the space. For any details, you'll have to ask Yousaf." 

_Later_ , Edelgard promises herself, as she watches Yousaf unlock the solid wooden door and Claude skips forward to help push it open. The inside is cooler, protected as it is from the ubiquitous glare of the sun. They pass the small antechamber into the dome, its ceiling a tiled honeycomb of mosaics, and then through it to a curved room lined with shelves. "These are our archives," Yousaf says as he searches and plucks a yellowing manuscript out from one such shelf – crammed with books – expertly. "Let's see … His Highness said around 70 years ago…"

"Year 3 of Great King Khosrau," Edelgard supplies, consulting the notes Lysithea had handed her the previous morning. "The transfer was requested by a Navid ibn Yazid."

Yousaf makes a noise of recognition. "I remember him. A lonely man, but kind. He lived here for some time while I was a child." He runs a wizened finger down the pages. "Year 3... His Majesty King Khosrau, Immortal Flames guard and rest his soul … ah, here we are. Three items were transferred here in that year, two of which were returned to the palace within the year. The last one, 'figurine of a woman standing'."

"That must be it!"

Yousaf nods, flips more pages. Then, he replaces the manuscript and beckons to Edelgard to follow (somewhere between the front door and the archival room, Claude had disappeared). 

"We are primarily an artisan commune," Yousaf says as they walk among the shelves of books, scrolls, and boxes, meticulously labeled. Occasionally, she sees a shine of marble or glint of precious metals and stones. "Most of the items collected here are records of crafting techniques and reference materials. The collection is organized by craft and reference type, but beyond that, there is little rhyme or reason to how the items are arranged on the shelves. Though we have many long-time residents, we also receive many temporary artisans from elsewhere in Almyra and it is difficult to impose strict rules on a wandering population. I expect the most likely section for Your Majesty’s figurine will be the human reference section, though we may try the precious metalwork section if that proves unfruitful." 

"Thank you, I will leave everything as I find it."

"Luckily, it is not such a very large collection," Yousaf says, smiling fondly as he looks around the room. "And we are usually diligent about sending borrowed materials back. Any items from the palace in Ishfa, in particular, will be marked with the royal emblem." He points out a wooden box on the nearest shelf with a gold leaf imprint depicting an archer on a rearing horse, bow and arrow pointed to the sky, haloed by an ornate sphere that Edelgard guesses must represent the sun. Opening it, he shows Edelgard a beautifully glazed ceramic plate, roughly the size of a hotcake, painted with the image of a reclining woman. "One of the ceramicists requested this earlier in the year and I expect we will be returning it before the end of the summer."

Yousaf, after asking her leave, returns home to prepare for his unexpected guests to spend the night. Thanking him, Edelgard turns her attention to the shelves around her, working methodically, eyes attuned for the telltale glint of gold. She finds an eclectic but fascinating selection of items: sculptures of the human body in all kinds of poses, nude and clothed, paintings on cloth, tiles, vellum, even a perfectly preserved skull. 

When she finally stumbles upon it, she is startled to stare at the likeness of Lysithea's rough sketch made solid in burnished gold, nestled in the velvet-lined box. It is smaller than she had expected, only a little larger than her palm, and fits snugly in her grip, warming. 

The record of its arrival Yousaf read earlier called it a figurine of a woman standing, and certainly Edelgard understand why, but the statuette she's holding clearly incorporates both male and female characteristics. It is incredibly detailed – Edelgard can see the brush of each lash and the ripple of muscles under skin; it is clear why this would have been a valuable resource for artisans. There is no shortage of very fine art pieces in Enbarr, and Garreg Mach had had its fair share as well, but Edelgard is hard pressed to recall if she's ever seen anything this intricately made. She wonders if the techniques used to produce it survived in their time. Its name – _Pandora_ (‘all-gifted’) – is etched precisely into each upturned palm, in a script Edelgard cannot read (but matching Lysithea's careful notes) and the uniform script. 

She stands there holding it, gazing upon it, imagining (willing) it to be the final piece to the fatal puzzle burned into her and Lysithea by Thales (wearing her uncle’s face). Thinks about the future – _her_ future, for the first time in a long time, in a desert oasis hundreds of leagues away from the place of her birth.

For someone who has spent so long forging the world around her into a more perfect ideal, it is a reminder that life will find ways to be unexpected and, with luck, sometimes even kind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've wanted to write about an oasis trip since I started this fic and I'm so excited we're finally here and I get to share it with all of you! Inspiration was largely drawn from two oases in particular: the Ubari oasis in Libya and the Crescent Lake (Yueyaquan) oasis in western China.
> 
> Happy Thanksgiving weekend to all my fellow Canadians! I hope everyone is enjoying the fall and looking forward to the blue moon at the end of this month.


End file.
